POEMS 


"X11 


Ni:\\  IIAYKV 
1!KNMAM1N,V\VILI.IAM    NOYKS. 

BOSTON, 
C.C:LITTLE«fcCO. 

L839. 


POEMS 


BY 


WILLIAM    THOMPSON    BACON. 

I 


NEW   HAVEN: 
BENJAMIN    &   WILLIAM    NOYES 

BOSTON: 
C.    C.    LITTLE    &   Co. 


MDCCCXXXIX. 


Entered  according  to  an  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1839, 

By  B.  &  W.  Noyes, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Connecticut. 


Printed  by  B.  L.  Hamlen. 


DEDICATION. 

I. 

DEW  to  the  thirsty  flower,  a  rosy  beam 

Of  sunshine,  or  the  melodies  to  spring  ; 
Sounds  to  the  sick  man's  ear,  a  running  stream. 

A  humming-bird,  a  wild  bee  on  the  wing  ; 
Joy  to  the  earth-scorn'd  soul,  when  all  remote 

Is  happiness,  and  e'en  Hope's  lamp  is  dim ; 
Light  to  the  dungeon  wretch,  when  the  last  note 

Comes  through  his  grate,  of  the  sweet  forest  hymn ; 
Her  first-born's  breath,  that  the  young  mother  feels, 

When  her  dim'd  eye  falls  on  her  little  one  ; 
A  maiden's  priceless  faith,  that  Love  reveals, 

When  heart  meets  heart  in  holy  unison ; 
Than  these,  than  all — O !  dearer  far  to  me, 
Mother !  are  thoughts  of  home,  of  my  sweet  home  and  thee. 

II. 

And  I  have  come  to  lay  these  flowers — some  sweet, 
Some  harsh,  some  crude,  yet  gather'd  far  and  wide — 
To  lay  them,  in  my  half  boy's,  half  man's  pride, 

My  venerated  mother  !  at  thy  feet ; 


Vlll  DEDICATION. 

Thou  wilt  not  scorn  the  truant  offering — 
No,  for  the  holy  fondness  of  that  eye, 
Which  watch'd  me  in  my  early  infancy, 

Watches  me  still,  now  on  life's  manlier  spring ; 

O !  be  these  aspirations  for  just  fame, 

(Fruits  of  thy  planting  in  my  youthful  heart) 
Be  they  well  worthy  of  their  godlike  art, 

And  worthier  still,  to  bear  thy  sacred  name  ! 
And  let  them  tell  the  world,  aloud  and  free, 
Mother !  thy  love  for  mine — Mother !  my  love  for  thee. 


INTRODUCTORY    ESSAYS 


To  delight  and  elevate  the  mind,  and  thus  to  refine  it,  by  bringing 
it  nearer  that  world  wherein  all  the  proper  objects  of  poetry  are,  or 
to  which  they  are  in  some  way  related,  is  the  office  and  end  of  true 
poetry.  It  matters  little  whether  poets  have  always  written  with  this 
high  end  in  view  ;  or  whether,  when  their  object  has  been  different, 
they  have  succeeded  in  pleasing ;  the  office  and  the  end  of  all  true 
poetry  are,  it  must  be  allowed,  as  above  defined.  It  becomes  then  a 
proper  subject  of  inquiry  to  a  good  man — to  every  man,  indeed,  who 
honorably  aspires  to,  and  would  honorably  win  the  poet's  name — 
whether  he  has  given,  or  is  now  giving,  to  his  powers,  right  direc- 
tion. An  art  like  his,  one  which,  if  he  has  indeed  the  capabilities  of 
a  true  poet,  is  to  bring  him  into  contact  with  the  best  feelings  of  our 
common  nature,  is,  of  course,  one  greatly  capable  of  good  and  evil. 
If  he  speaks  at  all,  he  speaks  of  what  is  common  to  man,  and  no- 
thing, therefore,  can  be  made  to  obtain,  on  so  wide  a  field,  without 
having  in  it  to  him,  either  in  its  immediate  or  remote  results,  the  re- 
lation of  a  responsibility.  The  proper  office  then  of  the  true  poet,  it 
would  seem,  is  not  an  unimportant  inquiry  ;  nor  can  it  be  deemed 
impertinent,  that  it  be  made  a  question  with  himself,  whether  he 
has,  or  has  not,  directed  his  steps,  according  to  the  just  principles  of 
his  art. 

If  we  were  to  give  ourselves  to  the  study  of  the  writings  of  those 
who  claim  to  be,  and  who  indeed  are  admitted  to  be,  poets,  perhaps 
it  would  take  a  long  time,  to  fairly  meet  and  answer  the  question. 
Such  a  variety  of  opinions,  it  would  seem,  have  obtained  among 


Xll  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

them,  and  such  a  variety  of  principles  have  been  advocated,  either 
from  whim,  or  caprice,  or,  it  may  be,  worse  reasons,  that  it  were  an 
almost  endless  task,  to  collate  and  subtract,  until  we  had  obtained 
the  truth.  It  were  well  then,  if  possible,  to  find  out  some  other  way 
of  answering  the  question ;  some  way  more  easy  and  direct,  and  to 
which  all  have  access,  whether  poets  or  not ;  that  every  man  be  able  to 
test  for  himself,  whatever,  in  the  garb  of  poetry,  is  offered  to  his  ac- 
ceptance. But  how  now  is  this  way  to  be  found,  and  where  ?  Why, 
obviously,  somewhere  among  those  principles  which  are  common  to 
us,  and  not  sacred  to  this  or  that  particular  set,  who  would  be  thought 
perhaps  the  truly  initiated.  To  allow  any  body  of  men  to  set  up  a 
claim  in  a  community,  no  matter  for  what  purpose,  either  in  the 
arts  or  sciences,  without  being  subject  to  the  principles  which 
other  men  deem  just,  is  to  allow  them  the  privilege,  abundantly 
large,  as  all  see,  to  make  themselves  ridiculous,  besides  giving  them 
the  liberty  to  play  off  their  foolery  on  all  those,  who  are  to  be  daz- 
zled by  genius,  or  imposed  on  by  sophistry.  It  is  on  common  prin- 
ciples then,  universal  ones,  those  which  every  truth-loving  and  honest 
mind,  however  uncultivated  and  humble,  finds  within  itself,  that  all 
questions  relative  to  poetry  and  poets  are  to  be  tested. 

It  is  hoped  we  shall  not  be  thought  to  be  making  poetry  too  much 
a  common  sense  matter,  by  such  remarks  as  these.  We  give  it  a 
character  no  less  elevated  than  it  can  justly  claim,  when  its  sources, 
its  principles,  its  office,  and  its  end,  are  fairly  considered ;  still,  has 
there  not  been  an  immense  outlay  of  labor,  in  talking  among  the 
clouds  on  this  subject?  and  has  it  not,  by  our  tolerating  this,  been 
gradually  slipping  from  our  minds — the  simple,  the  straight-forward, 
the  republican,  common  sense  character  of  all  sound  poetry  ?  Can 
it  be  doubted  for  a  moment,  that  poetry  is  to  exert  an  influence  as 
wide  as  the  all-embracing  circle  of  human  sympathies  ?  that  where- 
soever the  heart  of  man  can  be  found,  with  its  sadness  to  be  cheered, 
its  doubts  to  be  resolved,  its  weaknesses  to  be  invigorated,  its  affec- 
tions quickened,  its  aims  elevated,  and  its  whole  moral  life  to  be  re- 
newed and  purified — that  there  poetry  is  to  go  1  But  will  you  send 
a  poetry,  where  plainly  something  so  universal  is  demanded,  which  is 
not  to  lay  hold  of  all  these  common  interests  ? — will  it  thus  lay  hold, 
when  its  principles  can  not  be  apprehended  by  all  ?  Is  it  then  a 


INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY.  Xlll 

hasty  conclusion,  that  the  correct  principles  of  genuine  poetry  com- 
mend themselves  to  the  plain  understandings  of  men,  before  poetry 
can  catch  its  fullest  and  loud  response  from  their  bosoms  ?  In  other 
words,  are  not  the  principles  of  poetry  plainly  cognizable  to  every 
mind  ?  are  they  not  w  every  mind  ?  and  is  it  not — no  matter  whether 
poets  have  thought  so — an  art,  essentially  republican  and  common 
sense  ? 

Suppose  now  for  a  moment,  that  the  unambitious  and  direct 
method  of  judgment  here  submitted,  had  always  been  resorted  to,  in 
judging  the  productions  of  the  sons  of  genius.  Suppose  that  in  every 
age,  from  Hesiod  down  to  the  humblest  writer  of  this  day — inclu- 
ding all  the  poets  and  dramatists  of  Grecian  and  Roman  history,  the 
romaunt  writers  and  troubadours  of  the  later  middle  ages,  and  all 
those  from  the  first  soft  yet  bright  star  of  English  poetry,  to  the  one 
which  now  shines  indisputably  the  first  in  the  eastern  hemisphere — 
suppose  that  all  these  had  been  obliged  to  come  up  to  a  common 
sense  bar,  and  have  their  principles  (we  are  speaking  of  the  princi- 
ples ,  not  of  the  success  with  which  this  or  that  writer  has  applied  the 
principles  he  had  ;  for  some  writers  from  their  superior  power,  might 
produce  a  greater  effect  on  wrong  principles,  than  others  on  right 
ones)  of  their  art  tried  by  it.  Suppose  this  had  been  done.  How 
much  of  that  which  has  passed  for  poetry,  would  have  been  rejected  ! 
— how  much  that  has  been  rejected,  would  have  passed  for  poetry ! 
How  much  of  that  which  has  made  passion  its  staple  and  basis,  would 
have  been  laid  aside  by  the  better  judgments  of  men ! — and  how 
would  that  which  has  depended  on  substantial  thought  for  its  char- 
acter, passion  only  being  allowed  to  give  it  coloring,  have  remained 
to  us,  as  the  dignified  product  of  human  genius  !  The  answer  to 
these  interrogatories,  would  be  humbling  to  any  man,  who  prides 
himself  on  modem  literature.  It  would  be  found,  that  we  have  been 
tolerating  such  a  sort  of  truth,  as  were  far  better  called  falsehood. 
Poetry  has  been  a  thing  of  fashion,  not  a  thing  substantial ;  a  thing 
whose  principles  have  changed  with  the  popular  wind,  not  one 
whose  principles  were  like  rocks,  against  which  all  the  waters  that 
the  gales  of  popular  favor  ever  set  in  motion  might  beat,  yet  could 
not  prevail ;  and,  at  times,  it  has  been  such  an  enervating  and  de- 
structive thing  too,  to  every  thing  like  a  healthful,  either  moral  or 


XIV  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

intellectual  activity,  as  that  no  upright  mind  might  tolerate  it.  Every 
man  at  home  in  literary  history,  knows  that  this  is  no  extravagant 
language ;  and  the  reflection,  that  an  art  so  high,  so  pure,  and  so 
capable  of  vast  and  glowing  exhibitions  as  this,  and  of  such  lasting 
and  salutary  influence  on  the  heart  and  life,  should  have  been  thus 
abused,  and  turned  from  its  legitimate  office  in  society,  gives  an 
honest  man  pain. 

Let  us  see  now  whether  there  is  not  something  in  every  breast, 
which  gives  response  to  a  few  simple  propositions.  Is  not  poetry 
the  elevated,  and  elevating,  suggestion  of  the  soul,  when  that  soul  is 
incited  by  a  vivid  perception  of  its  object — the  one  then  in  its  vision 
— conveyed  to  the  souls  of  others  by  the  common  terms  of  art  ? 
Are  not  those  suggestions  most  likely  to  be  noble,  when  these  two 
things  are  true,  viz.  when  the  objects  presented  are  noblest,  and 
when  the  poet  utters  himself  in  all  honesty  ? — we  mean  by  this, 
when  he  rather  gives  us  the  genuine  expression  of  his  own  feelings, 
than  seeks  to  throw  himself  into  certain  moods,  or  states,  which  are 
not  natural  to  him,  not  his  habit,  or  mode,  of  mental  suggestion. 
Should  not  the  soul,  before  it  can  speak  in  the  most  exalted  poetry, 
be  one  where  all  the  best  affections  dwell  of  which  the  soul  is  capable, 
and  where  these  are  its  habit ;  and  should  it  not  be  actuated  by  such 
wise  and  just  principles,  as  that,  carried  out,  they  would  be  not  only  for 
that  soul's  own  highest  good,  but  also  for  the  good  of  others  ?  Should 
a  man  dare  make  an  affirmation,  accredit  a  sentiment,  promulge  a 
law,  or  assert  and  defend  a  doctrine,  which  have  either  immediate 
or  remote  tendencies,  to  blight  a  single  flower,  which  grows  on  the 
soil  of  a  virtuous  heart?  Now  these  are  questions  which  involve  a 
great  deal.  They  involve  the  question,  whether  mental  suggestions 
are  passions,  or  something  more  substantial ;  in  other  words,  whether 
thought  or  feeling  is,  properly  speaking,  the  language  of  the  soul — 
and  which  of  the  two  should  be  the  staple  of  poetry.  They  involve 
the  question  also,  whether  moral  subjects  are  not  capable  of  suggest- 
ing the  loftiest  enthusiasm,  and  of  course  the  highest  kind  of  poetry ; 
and,  also,  whether  poetry  shall  not  spring  from  one's  own  breast,  be 
a  sort  of  spontaneity  there,  or  whether  it  can  be  caught  by  a  trick 
from  others;  in  other  words,  whether  the  fancy  or  the  imaginative 
faculty  is  the  one  employed,  in  the  production  of  genuine  poetry. 


INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY.  XV 

They  involve  the  question,  whether  poetry  shall  possess  individuality 
or  not — be  the  honest  expression  of  what  a  man's  self  sees  and  feels — 
whether  he  shall  throw  himself,  so  to  speak,  into  what  he  writes ;  or 
whether  he  shall  stand  back  afraid  of  this,  because  critics  frown,  and 
only  let  his  soul  half-way  kindle  up  by  the  incitement  of  its  objects. 
They  involve,  also,  something  higher  than  all  this,  viz.  certain 
moral  questions ;  and  they  demand  assent  to  the  proposition,  that  the 
poet's  heart  must  be  a  fountain  of  pure  as  well  as  strong  affections — 
in  other  words,  he  must  be  a  good  man  to  write  good  poetry.  Now 
what  is  the  world's  common  sense  decision  here  1  We  believe  it  to 
be  one  and  universal. 

It  is  necessary  to  guard  the  above  paragraph  by  an  explanation. 
It  should  be  by  no  means  claimed,  by  an  advocate  of  such  sentiments 
as  these,  that  men  of  bad  passions,  and  principles,  have  not  written, 
and  cannot  write,  that  which  shall  fire  the  heart,  make  the  breast 
swell,  and  give  the  soul  vast  aims,  and  lofty  and  generous  impulses. 
It  is  unfortunate  for  the  cause  of  true  poetry,  that  good  men,  per- 
haps from  overzealousness  in  a  good  cause,  have  lost  sight  of  this 
truth ;  and  that,  with  but  a  partial  view  of  the  subject,  they  should 
have  been  heard  to  make  such  declarations  as  these — that  the  author 
of  Childe  Harold  has  never  produced  any  thing  worth  reading,  and 
that  he  must  one  day  pass  from  the  popular  heart ;  whereas,  if  they 
would  only  look  more  carefully  at  true  principles,  those  we  mean 
which  common  sense  declares  to  be  such,  they  would  see,  that,  so 
far  from  what  they  are  saying  ever  proving  true,  the  very  opposite 
is  the  truth.  This  noble  author  has  given  us  some  of  the  most  aston- 
ishing exhibitions  of  human  intellect ;  his  mind  seems  to  have  been 
almost  of  the  order  of  angels,  and  his  heart  fire ;  and  he  has,  in  the  ex- 
ercise of  that  mind,  obeying  the  impulses  of  a  disordered  heart,  writ- 
ten himself  a  place  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  as  long  as  the  world 
shall  endure.  And  yet  this  can  be  said  by  those  who  love  the  truth 
as  well  as  its  more  zealous  defenders ;  and  furthermore,  by  those 
who  entirely  disagree  with  this  author  in  his  estimate  of  poetry,  (we 
judge  his  principles  from  his  verse,  not  his  prose ;  for  we  deem  his 
defense  of  Pope  vs.  Bowles,  a  caprice,  rather  than  any  settled  convic- 
tion of  his  judgment,)  and  who  think  his  principles  altogether  unphi- 
losophical ;  and  by  those  who  mourn  too,  as  much  as  any  one  can, 


XVI  INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

the  awfully  demoralizing  tendency  of  a  portion  of  his  writings.  Still, 
let  us  have  the  truth.  How  doth  it  advantage  religion,  that  its 
friends  are  afraid  of  facts  ! 

The  advocate  of  such  sentiments  as  these,  might  indeed  agree  with 
the  most  zealous  of  truth's  defenders  in  this — that  it  would  be  well, 
if  we  could,  to  get  some  other  name  than  poetry,  for  such  writings 
as  Byron's,  Shelley's,  Moore's,  &,c. ;  but  in  this,  we  by  no  means 
deny  to  the  friends  of  these  gifted  authors,  all  that  is  claimed  by 
them,  except  the  name.  Nothing  is  asserted,  to  awaken  a  defensible 
prejudice  ;  for  a  question  could  only  turn  on  what  we  are  mutually 
agreed  about,  viz.  to  differ  in  our  definition.  Let  the  advocates  of 
religion,  then,  and  true  poetry,  place  themselves  on  this  ground ;  and 
the  warmest  defenders  of  that  school,  on  which  Southey,  most  unwise- 
ly, and,  as  we  think,  unwarrantably,  allowed  himself  to  put  his  brand- 
ing iron,  could  not  feel  insulted.  It  may  be  true,  on  one  definition, 
that  Byron  has  produced  the  most  exalted  poetry  ;  while  it  may  be 
equally  true  on  the  other,  that  his  writings  merit  not  the  name.  This 
question  we  are  willing  to  try  with  them — honestly,  openly,  and  in 
all  amity — on  the  principles  before  referred  to,  those  of  our  common 
nature.  Now  the  office  and  the  end  of  poetry  are,  to  delight  and  ele- 
vate the  mind  ;  and,  by  so  doing,  to  make  it  wiser  and  purer  :  for  this 
we  claim  the  assent  of  the  world ;  and  where  these  authors  would 
come  therefore,  is  beyond  a  question.  The  loftiest  enthusiasm  can 
only  be  awakened,  as  can  be  demonstrated  from  the  soul's  nature, 
by  the  perception  of  the  greatest  truths — which  truths  these  writers 
discarded. 

What  should  be  the  office,  then,  of  the  true  poet,  according  to  these 
notions,  is  apparent.  His  work  is  with  the  great  relations  of  truth, 
and  with  the  universal  sympathies  of  the  world.  This  we  think  the 
proper  office  of  the  true  poet ;  and  though  we  be  found  to  differ  from 
some  others  in  so  saying,  yet  we  hope  such  differences  have  been,  so 
far  as  they  go,  urged  in  a  catholic  spirit.  It  is  where  the  soul,  first 

"  baptized 
In  the  pure  fountain  which  the  Godhead  beams," 

throws  itself,  recklessly  as  it  were — fully,  certainly — into  its  subject ; 
and  by  its  skill  in  the  usage  of  the  terms  of  art — by  straight-forward, 


INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY.  XV11 

energetic,  and  natural  language,  makes  others  feel  the  truths  which 
itself  feels.  It  is  where  there  is,  first,  the  vivid  conception,  to  gather 
rapidly  together  the  objects  before  the  mind;  then  the  taste  arid 
judgment,  to  select  from  these  and  throw  the  bad  away ;  then  the 
requisite  susceptibility,  that  it  may  catch  and  give  back  impressions ; 
then  the  '  fusion  power'  of  the  imagination,  to  pour  out,  in  one  whole, 
with  the  mind's  own  stamp  on  them,  those  suggestions  which  the 
susceptibility  thus  quickened  gives  ;  and  over  all,  the  dominant 
principle  of  right  action,  the  moral  enthusiasm — such  is  the  state  of 
the  soul,  according  to  our  notions,  when  it  utters  itself  in  true  po- 
etry. Every  order  of  verse  may  be  tested  by  these  principles,  and  it 
is  believed  they  shall  in  no  case  suffer.  The  epic  of  Milton,  or  the 
smallest  canzonet  of  Wordsworth,  are,  alike,  capable  of  experiment  ; 
and  thus,  besides  the  truth  sought,  is  afforded  that  other  truth,  evinced 
in  so  many  ways — the  fewness,  the  simplicity,  the  common  sense, 
and  yet  the  comprehensiveness,  of  the  principles  of  a  great  art. 

DIVINITY  SCHOOL, 

Yale  College,  1839. 


MAN. 


v  t»  6  t    aeavrov." 

Periander. 


POEM. 


WHILE  the  warm  spirit  animates  the  brain, 
And  fancy  lends  her  aid — I  give  my  mind, 
Up  to  the  habit  of  a  sounding  song  : 
Mysterious  working  of  the  soul  for  truth, 
Chanting  her  thought,  it  may  be,  not  in  vain. 

Creature  is  he  of  a  mysterious  mould — 
Existent,  sentient,  intellectual  man ; 
And  in  a  world  of  equal  mystery, 
Resting  an  hour,  to  plume  his  wings  for  Heaven. 
Whoever  sits  and  dreams  of  his  own  nature, 
Starts  at  himself,  and  asks  'if  this  can  be?' 
Death  is  around  him — one  eternal  sleep. 
The  earth  he  treads,  this  hand  he  gazes  on, 
Are,  of  themselves,  in  immemorial  sleep. 
Each  thing  he  sees — the  meekest,  modest  flower, 
The  rolling  orbs,  the  infinite  sun  in  heaven — 
Are,  though  a  part  now  of  one  beautiful  whole, 
A  lifeless,  leaden,  indistinguishable  mass, — 
A  nothing  in  one  universal  void ! 
But,  when  he  takes  this  wondrous  world  within, 
Starts  a  new  being — the  idea  of  power ; 


MAN. 

And  the  wide  universe  becomes  one  Thought, 
And  mind,  an  Infinite  mind,  is  seen  in  all ! 

But  in  his  nature  now  lie  other  powers. 
He  thought — but  now  he  feels.     He's  sentient  then, 
And  a  new  mystery.     He  knows  himself, 
And  now  he  loves.     Reflection  told  him  this, 
And  now  he  has  self-love.     He  looks  away, 
Perhaps  o'er  this  strange  world.     He  walks  abroad, 
Beneath  these  rolling  heavens — and  what  is  here  ? 
He  sees  one  mighty  and  immeasurable  sweep 
Of  earth,  and  carpeted  in  luxuriant  green. 
Here  lies  a  valley,  like  a  small  wren's  nest, 
Hid  in  a  depth  of  hills.     There  proudly  towers 
A  mountain,  and  its  ragged  capitals 
Support  a  woody  wilderness.     Here  leaps, 
Through  the  cleft  rocks,  a  cataract,  and  there 
It  goes  a  stream,  all  sheeted  with  thick  foam, 
And  sweeps  to  yonder  sea.     That  sea  appears — 
Seen  by  the  sunlight — as  if  made  to  love, 
Or  wonder  at ;  and  to  his  heart  there  comes 
A  sense  of  peace. 

Here  is  a  shady  grove. 
The  sun  is  hot  in  heaven,  and  he  lies  down 
Beside  this  whimpering  stream,  and  the  thick  boughs 
Lend  him  their  shelter.     Here  he  sits  and  dreams 
On  what's  around  him.     He  was  wearied  when 
He  entered  here,  but  this  soft  felt  of  moss 
Rests  him.     His  mind  was  wearied  too,  but  hark ! 
This  little  rivulet  from  rock  to  rock 


MAN.  5 

Slips  with  inconstant  chime,  and  that  so  sweet, 
As  if  it  had  a  sense  of  its  own  freedom, 
And  only  ran  to  speak  away  its  joy. 
But  that's  not  all — a  voice  comes  to  him,  broken 
By  the  low  water-fall,  of  some  sweet  bird 
Chanting  a  love  song.     Furthermore,  the  breeze 
Takes  up  a  note  for  him,  and,  in  the  pines, 
It  hath  a  voice  so  low  and  spirit-like, 
He  thinks  it  is  a  spirit.     He  stoops  down 
And  sips  this  murmuring  stream — it  gives  him  life. 
The  wind  is  cooling  to  his  brow,  the  breath 
Snatch'd  from  yon  thyme  bank  has  a  boon  for  him, 
And,  though  he  knows  not  why,  from  every  thing — 
Earth,  and  the  air,  and  sky,  the  depths  of  heaven — 
Something  comes  for  his  thankfulness.     He  feels 
That  he  can  love. 

Come  with  him  to  this  spot 
We  call  a  home.     A  gray  haired,  venerable  man 
Calls  it  his  family.     A  matronly  form 
Stands  in  the  midst,  and  round  her  are  young  sons 
And  blooming  daughters.     Age  sits  on  them  both ; 
But  such  a  calm  benignity  is  his, 
And  such  a  sweetness  hers — he  knows  not  why, 
But  something  stirs  his  heart.     That  blooming  train 
Of  youthful  faces,  seem  like  heath  bells  growing 
In  a  soft  shelter'd  vale.     Love  lights  each  eye, 
Health  on  each  cheek,  and  fairy  laughter  blends 
With  word  and  song.     Each  lip  has  something  sweet 
For  its  meek  sister ;  and  so  like  they  look, 
And  move,  and  speak,  and  smile — it  seems  a  chain, 


6  MAN. 

Made  of  pure  gold,  is  round  their  hearts,  and  linked 

To  something  pure  in  Heaven.     Sudden  he  hears 

A  cry  in  that  sweet  band — and  what  is  there  ? 

A  bier ! — and  lilied  flowers  lie  on  a  face 

Lilied  as  they.     A  drooping  company 

Kneel,  and  dishevel'd  locks  of  gold  sweep  down 

To  the  moist  earth,  and  thick  and  fast  like  showers 

Fall  their  hot  tears,  and  bosoms  heave,  and  hands 

Clasp,  and  hearts  break,  and  shrieks  of  anguish  burst 

From  them  as  they  are  crush'd — as  the  dark  storm 

Rolls  o'er  their  souls.     And  now  they  follow  on 

Beside  the  lost  one,  and  they  scoop  a  spot 

In  the  green  mould,  and,  laying  that  meek  flower  in, 

They  heap  it  on  her  heart.     As  on  the  lid 

Of  the  coffin  the  gravel  falls,  and  eyes  are  bent 

On  those  thinn'd  ranks,  and  thoughts  of  one  bird's  voice 

Mute  in  that  choir  awake — he,  with  that  throng, 

Drops  a  warm  tear,  and  knows  he  is  a  man, 

And  has  a  soul. 

We  have  this  truth  then  here — 
Man  is  a  sentient,  intellectual  soul. 
He  cannot  help  his  thought — it  is  his  nature ! 
And,  by  inflexible  necessity, 
His  thought  must  be.     And  doth  he  will  (for  here 
He  is  omnipotent,)  to  fix  that  thought 
On  things  around,  this  same  necessity 
Shall  make  him  feel. 

This  same  man,  by  some  power, 
Is  placed  in  a  strange  world.     A  counterpart 
Of  what's  within  him  seems  it,  and  design 


MAN.  7 

Is  forced  upon  his  mind,  and  like  a  shock 
Into  his  soul.     Things  are,  and  nought  can  be 
Of  its  own  self  the  cause.     From  his  own  mind, 
As  acting  on  itself,  he  gains  this  truth ; 
Then,  widening  his  thought,  he  looks  abroad, 
And  marking,  of  the  peopled  universe, 
Matter  and  mind — one  death,  the  other  life — 
(Necessity  of  nature,)  hence  a  cause 
For  what  he  sees.     That  cause  for  the  effect 
Equal  must  be,  and  hence  thought  stands  upon 
This  strangely  fashion'd  world,  and  steps  to  Heaven ! 
So  cometh  in  the  being  of  a  God — 
His  nature  from  design.     We  see  things  be — 
He  is  Omnipotent.     We  see  the  worlds 
Spin  in  the  depths  of  heaven  from  age  to  age, 
And  the  fierce  sun,  a  sentinel,  to  watch 
The  sisterhood  of  planets  as  they  roll, 
Shedding  their  blessings — and  we  call  him  now, 
Omnipotent  and  Father.     The  same  truth 
Breaks  on  us  every  where.     We  walk  abroad — 
It  is  his  earth  we  tread  on !  we  look  up — 
It  is  his  sky  we  gaze  at,  and  his  stars 
Spangling  the  glittering  prospect,  and  we  feel 
Encinctured  with  his  glory !     'Tis  his  air 
We're  breathing  now !  it  is  his  light  brings  in, 
By  curious  laws,  this  outward  world,  and  writes  it 
Upon  our  souls !  his  is  it  that  our  ears 
Perform  their  delicate  functions,  and  take  up 
The  quivering  pulses  of  the  air,  and  pour  them 
Into  our  hearts !  The  breath  snatch'd  from  the  flowers, 

4 


8  MAN. 

Or  the  green  fields,  or  the  rejoicing  earth — 

All,  all  are  his  !    There's  gladness  and  deep  joy, 

Every  where  round  us ;  and,  midst  these  bright  things, 

We  walk,  and  talk,  and  feel — how  good  Heaven  is ! 

O,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  love ! 

Shout  it,  the  valleys  and  the  level  plain ! 

Shout  it,  the  woods,  the  waters,  and  the  seas ! 

Shout  it,  the  mountains,  and  the  far  old  hills ! 

And  let  the  ocean  join  the  jubilee ! — 

Till  the  high  arch  of  heaven  takes  up  the  voice, 

And  rolls  the  thunder  round  the  universe ! 

So  seems  this  friend  omnipotent  and  good, 
And  so  we  call  him  God.     We  win  this  truth, 
From  every  thing  about  us — and  we  do 
These  natures  violence,  to  shut  away 
Such  truths  so  preach'd  to  all. 

Look  now  upon 

The  human  family.     And  what  a  scene 
Spreads  out  before  us?    How  their  natures  differ? 
How  low,  how  high,  how  earthly,  how  like  Heaven  ?(2) 
How  mean,  and  yet  how  mighty  is  our  world  ? 
Yet  good  predominates.     Ay !  he  is  wrong, 
Who  sees  less  good  than  evil.     We  all  err, 
Cursing  each  other.     We  curse  God  to  curse 
So  boldly  him  he  made.     Sure,  mid  the  gloom 
Of  a  revolted  world,  some  stars  shoot  up, 
Flashing  their  silver  lustre  through  the  night, 
Like  truth  itself !    Seek  the  lone  cell  with  him 
Who  girdled  Europe  with  a  path  of  love, 


MAN.  9 

Blessing  mankind.     Go  down  to  that  rank  dungeon, 

Dwell  in  its  pestilent  breath,  and  look  at  horror 

In  all  her  hideous  forms,  and  then  kneel  down 

With  a  low  heart  of  love,  and  tell  the  dying 

There  is  a  Heaven.     Go  dare  the  mountainous  path 

Of  the  vex'd  ocean,  seek  the  furthest  jut 

Of  stormy  Labrador,  or  wend  thy  way 

To  gray  Pacific's  melancholy  waste, 

And  tell  the  wretched  Islander,  a  Christ 

Has  died  to  save  him.     Hang  above  that  corse 

With  the  lone  mother ;  give  up  health,  truth,  life, 

For  a  fond  father ;  fling  thy  soul  away 

For  a  loved  sister ;  leap,  as  to  a  feast, 

To  lay  thy  mangled  corse  upon  the  threshold 

Of  thy  beloved  country ;  scorn  thyself — 

Be  swallow'd,  lost  in  love,  to  bless  a  world, 

And  then  call  man  all  evil.     Man  is  love ! 

Though  he  is  lost ;  and  he  shows  likest  hell, 

Who,  mid  such  proofs  of  good,  dares  lift  his  heart, 

And  meanly  can  despise.     A  coldly  nature 

Is  an  unblessing  blessing ;  for  though  shut 

By  it  from  sorrows,  yet  those  charities 

That  spring  from  feeling — blossoms  of  the  heart — 

They  soon  become  rank  weeds. 

Yet  may  the  heart 

Be  curs'd  with  feeling.     He  who  on  the  world 
Looks  as  it  often  is,  will  bear  a  heart 
Bleeding  quite  to  his  grave. 

"  'Tis  silence  all, 
Over  the  solemn  globe.     This  mighty  mass, 


10  MAN. 

Held  by  its  Maker,  spins  along  the  skies, 

Still'd  as  by  day.     Its  wearied  ones  have  laid 

Their  toils  and  troubles  by,  and  in  their  dreams 

Welcome  forgetfulness.     The  proud  man  now, 

Is  proud  no  more.     He  thinks  not  of  his  state — 

His  gold,  or  grandeur :  the  silk  couch  no  softer 

Seems,  than  the  mat  the  squalid  wretch  lies  down  on, 

And  calls  his  own.     Famine  no  longer  now  » 

Pinches  the  poor,  or  shakes  its  skeleton  hand, 

Lean  in  his  face,  or  screams  of  wintry  blasts, 

Or  wo  and  misery.     His  fancy,  bright 

As  the  swoll'n  lordling's,  pictures  in  gay  state 

And  emulous  array,  as  golden  scenes 

Of  pomp  and  luxury ;  and,  led  by  thought, 

He  walks  as  proudly  with  the  multitude, 

Cursed  while  he's  fawn'd  on.     Sickness,  wan  disease, 

They  give  their  grasp  up  now ;  and  he  that  hangs, 

Just  o'er  the  coffin  and  the  narrow  house, 

Liveth  long  years.     Turn  with  me  to  this  dungeon — 

What  a  foul  scene  is  here !     The  narrow  walls, 

Crumbling  with  age,  and  ropy  with  green  mould, 

And  clasping,  in  their  almost  tangible  horror, 

The  wretched — make  a  scene  so  damn'd,  that  hell 

Might  feel  itself  outdone.     Want,  pinching  want — 

There  is  its  home !     Health,  comfort — look  away ! 

They  come  not  here.     The  spider  crawls  unhurt 

Round  those  dim  bars,  from  which  comes  but  one  ray 

Of  the  poor  sickly  moon.     The  reptile  clambers 

From  chink  to  chink,  in  those  same  mouldering  walls ; 

And  if  he  hiss,  his  breath  no  poison  hath 


MAN.  1 1 

For  the  poor  inmate.     Look  upon  him  there — 
Lank  is  his  leaden  cheek,  and  clammy  lies 
The  death  damps  on  him.     Ragged  as  the  locks 
Of  the  but  just  tamed  bear,  his  well  shaped  brow 
Gleams  in  the  moonlight.     Those  dim  eyes  of  his, 
So  long  shut  from  the  sun — he  has  forgot 
Whether  a  sun  there  be,  and  has  forgot 
Whether  eyes  have  their  uses.     What  are  now 
Earth's  thousand  sights  to  him  ? — the  glossy  fields 
Living  with  verdure,  the  aspiring  hills 
Towering  and  vast,  or  the  bright  bending  dome 
Of  the  fresh  heavens  ?     Nothing.     Those  drawn  lips, 
They  have  forgot  to  smile,  and  lank  his  jaws 
Lie  like  a  dead  man's.    Thin,  waste,  cursed — his  frame 
Seems  like  some  ghastly  skeleton ;  and  his  limbs, 
So  shrunken  are,  his  chains  slip  on  and  off 
Suiting  his  pleasure.     They  are  worn  so  long, 
He  wears  them  now  from  habit,  and  finds  pleasure, 
To  something  call  a  friend.     Look  on  him  now — 
Heavens !  there  is  joy  there.  See !  the  breast  swells  full! 
He  starts !  the  lips  draw  down  into  a  smile — 
Ay !  he's  in  dreams.     Sleep,  golden  visitant ! 
Sleep  gives  the  wretch  his  joy.     He  feels  not  now 
The  curse  and  ban  laid  on  him.     There's  no  blood 
Seen  on  his  gorey  fingers.     The  sharp  cry 
Of  the  heart-broken  comes  not,  and  the  orphan 
Wails  not  against  her  murderer.     He  lies 
Proud  in  his  poor  state,  and  his  thoughts  match 
Those  of  a  monarch.     What  is  that  vast  cave 
The  light  of  heaven  shut  from  him? — those  proud  walls, 


12  MAN. 

Gloomy,  and  dank,  and  green  with  mould  and  age, 
Where  the  foul  reptile  clambers  ? — those  damp  arches 
Hung  with  a  grave's  pall  ?  Those  proud  walls  roll  back, 
And  tower  away  into  a  kingly  dome, 
Fretted  with  gold  and  curious  workmanship, 
Blinding  with  splendor.    Friends  fawn  round  him  there ; 
Beauty,  decked  out  with  sunbeams,  hath  strange  smiles ; 
And  music  fills  his  heart,  and  the  gay  dance 
Speeds  into  the  far  night,  and  revelry 
And  a  proud  joy  are  his.     Ay !  the  foul  murderer, 
Touch'd  by  the  wand  of  Sleep,  transformed  all  seems, 
And  dons  his  robes,  and  walks  abroad  as  proud 
As  doth  the  proudest  of  the  globe." 

It  is 

A  picture  of  the  fancy,  yet  methinks 
Drawn  with  no  pen  of  falsehood.     Joy  awhile  ! 
But  only  till  the  dawn — which  shall  bring  in 
Fresh  want  and  misery.     A  mind  to  paint 
Pictures  so  stern  as  this,  a  soul  to  feel 
As  such  souls  must  feel — take  our  lives  away ; 
And  we  walk  forth  among  our  fellow  men, 
Smiling,  yet  bearing  hearse  flowers  on  our  hearts. 

Yet  doth  a  hand  of  wisdom  guide  the  world, 
And  men  are  bless'd.     A  heart  whose  life  is  fire, 
Is  nature's  accident.     The  mass  have  minds 
Temper'd  for  the  varieties  of  life, 
And  he  who  makes  a  fierce  and  passionate  heart 
Excuse  for  sin,  sins  with  as  high  a  hand 
As  the  the  first  Cain  in  Heaven.     A  mind  of  power 


MAN.  13 

Gifted  by  nature,  a  wild  exquisite  sense 
Of  mental  and  moral  beauty,  and  a  heart 
With  pulse  of  lightning — these !  and  a  high  gift 
To  pour  the  soul  out  in  a  song  of  flame — 
Such  minds  methinks  before  the  bar  of  God, 
Shall  stand  far  less  acquitted  than  the  clown, 
Who  comes  into  the  world  as  brutes  do  come, 
Ne'er  heard  the  name  of  genius  or  of  fame, 
But  lay  down  in  his  grave,  a  humble  child 
Of  the  poor  Nazarene. 

The  poet's  name, 

Alas !  has  damn'd  more  men  than  verse  has  saved. 
Our  bards  have  been  like  wandering  stars,  andblack'ning 
Along  their  high,  bright  pathways.     Taking  it — 
The  gift  of  verse — as  licence  for  all  crime, 
Lifted  like  gods  above  the  multitude, 
There  sat  they  rioting  in  consciousness 
Of  their  stern,  gloomy  grandeur !     What  is  genius — 
But  a  quick  eye  for  beauty,  and  a  heart 
Gentle  as  mind  is  quick,  and  a  pure  spirit 
Full  of  all  beautiful  feelings  ?     What  is  it — 
But  to  feel  this  more  deeply  ?  and,  surrendering 
The  mind  up  to  its  generous  impulses, 
Weave  from  the  golden  store-house  of  the  brain, 
Its  witchery  of  wonders  ?  linking  these 
Into  a  chain  of  flowers,  to  fling  away 
On  a  less  gifted  world  ?     Ay,  what  is  it — 
But  to  love  all  things  human  1  feel  that  each 
Is  but  a  brother  of  the  multitude, 
Placed  here  to  bless  it  ?  freely  give  away 


14  MAN. 

Its  innocent  delirium  of  joy, 

So  it  make  others  joyous  ?  and  bless  God, 

Because  he  gives  such  blessings  1     What  is  it— 

But  to  keep  fresh  its  childhood,  and  the  heart 

That  blesses  childhood  ?  be  a  child  in  worth, 

A  man  in  wisdom  ?  and,  while  reaching  forth 

To  write  one's  name  in  glory,  leave  it  there 

Pure  as  its  God  is  pure  ?     The  fount  of  song 

Is  but  another  name  for  purity. 

High  poetry  is  Beauty  robed  in  Truth — 

'Tis  virtue !  'tis  religion ! — and  that  verse 

Which  flows  impure,  is  poison'd  by  some  stream, 

Not  from  the  soul  of  song.     Our  poets,  then — 

They  with  the  innocent  heart — let  them  then  revel, 

If  so  they  list,  in  mad  and  mirthful  moods ; 

But  let  their  madness  be  so  finely  temper'd 

With  the  sweet  feelings  of  humanity, 

It  blesses — not  destroys.     Be  it  a  stream 

Leaping  like  light  among  the  lonely  hills, 

Then  sweeping  to  the  valleys,  and  pour'd  round, 

Blessing  where'er  it  moves.     Oh,  how  unlike 

Is  genius'  history!     'Tis  something  sad, 

And  dark,  and  dread,  and  mournful.     Like  the  waste 

Of  Tyre  or  Tadmor — here  and  there  a  slab, 

A  shatter'd  obelisk,  a  sculptured  frieze, 

A  storied  urn,  or  smouldering  capital — 

A  lone  and  beautiful  ruin. 

But  such  hearts 

Jlre  nature's  accidents.     The  common  mind 
Is  far  removed  from  it  by  a  wise  Heaven, 


MAN.  15 

And  so  the  world  is  bless'd.     The  sentient  part — 

Essence  of  passion — is  link'd  to  a  power 

Giant  and  godlike,  the  stern  intellect, 

And  nature  doth  so  balance  them,  that  each 

Blesses  the  other.     Oh,  how  easy  then, 

Would  each  one  wake  to  duty,  to  pour  light 

In  floods  upon  the  spirit !     How  the  powers 

That  do  make  up  the  soul,  stand  out  to  us 

Guarding  each  other !     Give  the  mind  sound  food, 

The  mind  is  sound,  and  feed  the  heart  with  truth, 

And  each  is  perfect.     Oh,  could  we  but  wake 

To  a  just  sense  of  our  own  nativeness, 

What  a  bless'd  race  were  we !     Could  we  but  feel 

How  like  to  gods  we  are,  the  star  of  truth 

Would  not  be  such  an  orphan  in  the  sky ; 

For,  mingling  from  the  corners  of  the  heavens, 

It  would  be  one  wide,  blazing  galaxy 

Of  glory  and  of  splendor.     Each  should  be 

A  law  unto  himself,  and  to  do  good 

Would  be  the  end  of  all.     Alas !  we  dream — 

Fancy  doth  outrun  reason.     The  stern  stuff 

From  which  the  world  is  made,  it  shapes  not  thus, 

Or  shapes  so  easy.     Truth  is  a  stern  preacher — 

Sterner  than  dreams,  and  such  a  tale  is  tier's 

As  dreaming  is  not  made  of. 

Yet,  methinks, 

We  do  not  dream  enough  in  this  same  world. 
The  truths  that  touch  man's  being,  the  firm  rock 
On  which  the  heart  should  rest,  we  scorn,  as  faith, 
And  lean  upon  a  reed.     We  think  too  little. 

5 


16  MAN. 

We  fill  up  life  with  action,  which  shuts  out 

Thoughts  of  true  greatness,  and  we  bury  up 

Our  better  capabilities,  for  lack 

Of  time  to  learn  their  uses.     He  who  hath 

The  stature  of  himself,  and  this  is  got 

Only  by  thought,  has  there  a  noble  truth 

Which  men  are  slow  to  learn.     The  reason  is, 

Reflection  has  not  given  us  to  ourselves, 

And  taught  us  the  full  standard  of  the  man, 

And  hence  we  measure  wrong.     Would  we  but  give 

Ourselves  up  to  ourselves  we  should  not  err, 

For  that  would  bring  self-knowledge,  the  first  step 

In  heavenly  wisdom. 

Man !  immortal  man ! 

Wouldst  thou  but  know  thyself,  then  shut  away 
The  world's  cares  from  thee,  and  with  thy  pure  thought 
Go  thou  alone.     Go  thou  where  comes  no  voice, 
Save  that  which  is  within  thee,  and  believe 
Thou  shalt  be  bless'd.     Thou  shalt  find  wisdom  there, 
Such  as  thou  little  dreamst  of.     The  still  hour, 
The  solitude,  the  silence,  and  the  night — 
They  shall  bring  revelations.     There's  a  voice, 
Solemn  and  deep,  or  sweet  and  musical, 
Of  vastest  utterance ;  and  unto  thee, 
It  shall  speak  mysteries.     And  all  of  us 
Do  sometimes  hear  this.     There  are  times  when  we 
Sicken  in  chase  of  pleasure,  or  pursuit 
Of  honorable  fame,  and  when  we  feel 
We  need  some  other  solace.     These  same  props 
We  lean  the  heart  on,  often  slip  from  us, 


MAN.  17 

And  leave  us  unsupported.     Wealth,  renown — 

They  aid,  but  do  not  constitute  the  hope, 

The  pillar  of  the  soul.     They  make  us  free, 

And  keep  us  from  perplexities,  and  give  us 

The  means  of  virtue,  but  not  virtue's  self— 

That  cometh  from  within.     I  would  not  shut 

Honor  away,  or  cry  down  earthly  good, 

With  Cynics  scorn,  or  Bigotry  condemn, 

Or,  with  the  godless  Eremite,  shut  out 

Earth  from  my  heart  to  shut  the  devil  in, 

Yet  would  I  put  them  in  a  scale  so  low 

Did  they  but  clash  with  virtue,  as  should  make  them 

Viler  than  vanity.     And  this  great  truth, 

As  on  we  go  in  life,  we  little  heed : 

The  evil  is,  we  look  off  from  ourselves. 

The  accents  of  parental  lips,  the  lessons 

Breathed  on  our  mothers'  bosoms,  and  the  warnings 

Of  venerable  wisdom ;  these  instill 

Fears  of  our  fellows,  and  we  have  small  time 

To  fear  ourselves.     Alas !  that  we  should  waste 

A  life  in  watching  for  a  foe,  while  he 

Lives  in  our  very  hearts. 

Surrendering  thus 

Ourselves  up  to  ourselves,  the  mind  first  learns 
Its  godlike  capabilities.     These  faculties 
And  powers  to  plan  great  actions,  these  high  thoughts 
That  wing  the  universe,  these  lofty  aims — 
How  many  minds  do  slumber  to  their  graves 
Dead  to  such  impulses,  and  as  little  heeding 
As  the  dull  earth  they  tread  on !    How  is  crowded 


18  MAN. 

This  mighty  stage  of  being  with  thick  swarms, 

That  roll  to  death  like  some  resistless  stream 

Pouring  forever !     How  like  fools  we  rise, 

Or  the  dull  savage  of  the  waste,  and  bear 

An  impress  on  our  brows,  yet  in  the  brain 

No  knowledge  of  its  wonders !    Myriads 

Of  human  beings  spring  up  into  life, 

Run  out  their  lives,  and  fill  no  larger  graves 

Than  the  poor  brutes  beside  them.     Yet  they  carry 

God's  signet  there,  and  are  capacitated 

As  are  th'  archangels.     Fix  thine  eye  with  me 

On  that  proud  multitude,  and  tell  me  now, 

If  they  do  know  their  greatness.     Doth  the  spiritual- 

Which  is  the  worth  of  all  we  call  ourselves — 

Doth  it  dwell  there  ?    Would  it  so  heedlessly 

Give  itself  up  to  avarice,  and  shackle 

Its  noble  nature  ?    Would  it  shut  away 

The  means  of  widening  the  vast  intellect, 

Lifting  its  powers,  and  pluming  them  for  the  sweep 

Of  a  yet  coming  being  1    Ah,  methinks, 

It  is  th'  imperial  and  '  cloud-cleaving  minister' 

Hurl'd  from  his  cloud-built  throne ! 

And  solitude 

Doth  teach  the  moral  greatness  of  the  soul. 
Busied  with  being,  and  surrender'd  up 
To  the  world's  whirl,  and  grasping  with  the  rest 
The  straws  upon  the  stream,  and  striving  thus 
To  gorge  the  deathless  hunger  of  the  heart — (3) 
The  purer  man  is  driven  from  its  own, 
And  taketh  of  corruption.     The  pure  spirit 


MAN.  19 

Is  of  a  life  so  pure,  that  it  is  wing'd 

Only  to  its  best  action  in  the  skies : 

Bringeth  it  within  the  echo  of  our  world 

And  it  is  tainted.     Who  can  grasp  at  flame, 

Drink  hellebore,  or  night-shade,  and  not  feel  it  ? 

Or  lay  the  rusty  dagger  on  his  heart, 

And  shall  not  die  ?    The  things  in  this  same  world 

That  touch  our  spirits,  do  corrode  them  all, 

And  we  become  impure.     But  turn  away 

Into  thyself  at  eve,  or  at  thick  night 

When  the  full  stars  come  watching  to  the  sky — 

Thou  shalt  be  gainer.     The  still  hour  shall  loosen 

Earth's  hold  upon  thee,  and  thou  shalt  be  free 

To  drink  truth  at  her  fountain. 

"The  tired  world 

Fast  lock'd  in  sleep,  and  crowded  with  thick  dreams — 
The  restless  mourner  turns  and  turns  again, 
Finding  no  rest.     The  drowsy  influences 
Of  the  still  hour ;  the  absence  of  all  life, 
Or  soul,  or  sound ;  the  thick  clouds,  and  the  moon 
Mocking  with  her  pale  visage  the  dim  world 
Gloomy  and  vast — the  hills  that  stretch  away 
Into  the  darkness,  the  wide  plains,  the  streams, 
That,  winding  there,  their  reflex  do  send  back 
Here  to  his  casement — these  have  now  no  power ; 
Nor  hang  they  on  the  eyelid  one  dull  weight, 
To  give  the  soul  oblivion.     Only  heard 
Faintly  and  far,  the  wind,  in  the  thick  wood, 
Pierces  the  ear  of  Night  with  its  dull  roar — 
All  else  is  still.     The  laggard  and  dull  hours, 


20  MAN. 

Laggard  and  leaden  pac'd,  creep  slowly  by, 

As  if  to  mock  the  watcher ;  and  the  clock, 

Noting  their  lapse,  tolls  heavy,  as  the  heart 

Press'd  with  a  sick  man's  agony.     Alas ! 

He  turns  and  restless  rolls,  till  the  pent  heart — 

Hero  no  more — gives  way,  and  the  moist  eye 

Burns  in  its  socket.     Yet  it  is  no  time 

To  wake  and  weep.     There  should  be  wisdom  here, 

Would  the  soul  seek  it.     Night  doth  chase  away 

All  the  day's  follies,  and  the  heart  lets  go 

Its  hold  on  vanity.     The  mortal  eye, 

Purged  from  its  blindness,  sees  the  'life  of  things,' 

And  our  proud  thought  is  free.     The  world  spread  out 

He  here  looks  down  upon,  as  from  some  height 

Looks  the  tired  traveler.     The  pleasant  fields 

Are  those  the  good  man  walks  in ;  the  bright  streams 

Devious  and  glittering,  are  the  silver  paths 

Of  virtue ;  while  the  rugged  and  rough  ways 

Are  trod  by  those  who,  shutting  their  mad  ears 

Unto  the  voice  of  truth,  walk  the  waste  world, 

Tracking  their  way  with  blood.     Let  then  the  blaze — 

O,  thou,  its  parent  source !  of  truth  fall  now, 

On  the  lone  watcher,  till  his  soul  grows  bright 

With  the  bright  blaze ;  and  it  shall  teach  him  here 

The  folly  of  the  worldling,  and  the  Morn 

Thall  send  him  forth  again,  a  sad  perhaps, 

Yet  a  far  wiser  man." 

It  is  a  picture 

Of  a  quick  heart  deserted,  one  that  loves 
The  vanities  of  life,  and  left  awhile 


MAN.  21 

To  feed  itself  on  its  own  poverty. 
The  spirit  reveling  in  its  home  of  clay, 
Finds  out  at  last  'tis  sporting  with  the  grave. 

And  solitude  hath  other  truths  than  these — 
Man  is  the  creature  of  society. 
And  what  a  world  of  duties  press  him  here ! 
Duties  diverse  as  wants  are,  and  relations 
Rising  around  in  crowds.     Look  at  him  here, 
A  husband  and  a  father.     On  him  still 
Hangs  in  its  faith  the  heart  that  flung  away 
Its  maiden  pride  for  him,  and  still  that  eye 
Steady  seeks  his  for  sympathy,  and  low 
She  tells  him  her  dependencies,  and  rests 
Nestling  within  his  bosom.     And  around  him, 
Lives  that  same  mother's  beauty  in  soft  eyes, 
And  dimpl'd  cheeks,  and  stirring  hearts ;  and  there, 
Mingled  with  that  same  grace,  himself  he  sees, 
With  his  dark  locks  of  beauty,  and  proud  eye, 
And  heart  of  daring.     And  a  thousand  thoughts 
Start  at  the  sight  of  them,  and  claims  come  in 
That  make  him  tremble ;  yet  their  mountain  weight 
Turns  to  a  feather,  for  his  heart  of  love 
Lightens  them  all.     And  see  him  as  a  man 
Fir'd  for  the  public  good,  awake  to  all 
That  makes  society  sweet,  and  keeps  the  name 
Of  country  dear  to  him.     How  many  claims 
Heap  on  him  here !    Some  minds  there  are  so  good 
They  cannot  mingle  with  the  multitude — 
They  must  stay  home  and  pray.     The  sacred  word 


22  MAN. 

Tells  them  man's  lot  is  isolated,  and 
His  closet  his  best  home,  and  we  must  let 
Our  plans  of  love  and  law  and  government 
Work  for  themselves,  or  leave  to  wickedness 
The  task  of  guiding  us.     Oh !  'tis  most  foul, 
To  see  the  proud  heart  thus.     He  is  the  man, 
Who  feels  he  is  a  link  in  one  grand  chain 
Moulding  and  banding  the  community ; 
Who,  buckling  all  its  claims  upon  his  back, 
Bears  what  he  can  of  the  huge  public  load, 
And  does  it  with  a  heart  of  lowly  truth, 
Loving  his  God  in  heaven.     It  is  self-knowledge 
Teaches  a  man  these  truths,  and  makes  each  one 
A  faith  with  him :  a  living  with  one's  self, 
Not  like  the  Eremite ;  but,  turning  off 
Frequent  to  summon  up  our  better  powers, 
That,  furnished  with  their  lessons,  we  may  go 
Back  to  the  world  again. 

And  solitude 

Obedient  to  her  offices,  doth  tell  us, 
Man  is  a  portion  of  humanity. 
Who  thinks,  must  feel ;  and,  feeling,  we  become 
One  with  the  living  universe.     The  mind 
School'd  into  that  just  knowledge  of  itself 
Which  thought  supplies,  is  grafted  on  a  stock 
Whose  fruit  is  virtue.     The  strange  mysteries, 
That  seemingly  make  up  the  bulk  of  life, 
Are  strange  no  longer.     Woes  that  crush  men  down- 
Cries  that  go  up  from  those  care  fretted-hearts 
Shut  from  the  sweet  immunities  of  life, 


MAN.  23 

And  left  to  its  worst  struggles — injuries, 
Many  and  heavy,  which  successful  power 
Hurls  down  on  the  less  fortunate — rank  pride, 
And  pomp,  that  treads  on  unpresuming  worth, 
And  holds  it  valueless — all,  all  that  is 
Of  suffering  and  of  sorrow,  all  that's  dread, 
And  terrible,  and  gloomy — these  are  made 
Means  of  increase  of  virtue ;  for  the  heart 
Doth  purify  itself  by  sympathy, 
'  Even  as  Christ  is  pure.'     Yet  it  is  wise, 
That  we  cannot  feel  all  the  ills  of  life, 
Though  the  heart  should  be  open.     Oh !  how  wise, 
That  the  heart  must  stop  somewhere.     Could  I  feel 
Each  human  ill ;  could  I  look  forth  upon 
Life's  thousand  accidents ;  see  that  heart  break, 
Hear  this  crush'd  spirit's  cry,  or  catch  the  wail 
The  orphan  sends  up,  or  the  stifled  shriek 
Of  the  lone  widow's  agony — how  poor 
A  boon  were  life !     We  live  in  a  bright  world. 
Nature  doth  minister  to  us  like  a  nurse, 
Or  a  fond  mother's  heart.     The  Spring  comes  in 
With  its  lap  full  of  flowers,  the  Summer  comes 
In  matronly  beauty,  Autumn  with  full  wealth 
Follows,  and  Winter  on  his  car  sublime 
Closes  the  scene.     And  each  showers  down  for  us 
Beauty  and  blessings.     Flames  the  sun  for  us, 
Beams  the  pale  moon,  and  glitt'ring  stars  hang  out 
Watches  on  high.     And  hearts  are  kind  to  hearts, 
And  voices  low  to  voices,  and  glad  eyes 
Look  love,  and  softening  influences  take 

6 


24  MAN. 

The  curse  from  sin.     And  yet  the  world  is  sad, 

Worn,  and  most  wretched ;  and  who  gives  himself 

Up  to  the  wants  of  all,  will  pour  life  out 

In  one  wild  flood  of  tears.     But  God  hath  set 

Bounds  to  these  sentient  natures.     For  our  own, 

The  dwellers  in  our  bosoms,  by  our  hearths, 

And  curtain'd  by  our  watchfulness — the  heart 

Bleeds  as  they  bleed.     For  those  around  us  set, 

Equals  for  public  exigence,  we  have 

Respectful  sympathy.     Yet  further  send 

The  eye  as  one  upon  the  myriad  world, 

And  nature  gives  small  feeling,  and  we  rest 

In  incommunicable  selfishness. 

Here  drinks  the  heart  in  error  like  a  flood, 

For  we  can  smile  seeing  our  brothers  perish. 

Oh !  how  unblest  his  lot,  who  in  this  world 
Can  feel  no  sympathy  for  man  as  man ; 
Who,  shutting  up  his  feelings  in  himself, 
Can  walk  abroad,  and  never  lend  his  ear 
To  its  strong  voice  of  sorrow !     Earth  sends  up 
One  universal  sigh  from  her  great  heart, 
And  asketh  sympathy.     The  vales,  the  hills — 
They  have  a  voice ;  the  streams,  and  lakes,  and  seas ; 
The  wildly  winding  ocean  as  it  rolls, 
Sendeth  it  to  the  heavens.     Oh !  where  are  they 
Whom  the  heaped  floods  went  over  in  mad  wrath, 
Cursed  by  their  suffering  God  ?     The  nations  where, 
Living  since  that  dark  day  ?     The  myriads  now, 
From  the  blood  wave  of  Ganges,  to  the  snows 


MAN.  25 

Fettering  the  stormy  pole  ?  the  Polygar 
Beastly  in  his  estate?  the  Brahmin  shut 
By  his  rank  pride  from  God?  the  ocean  Isles 
Smiling  first  to  the  dawn  ?  and  the  loud  Capes 
Reeking  with  sacrifice  ?  Oh !  when  the  eye 
Takes  in  the  solemn  scene,  how  coldly  dead 
Must  that  heart  be,  which  feels  within  itself 
No  common  bond  that  binds  it  to  the  world ! 

And  solitude  doth  teach  us  how  to  die. 
The  grave !  the  grave !     Ah !  here  we  make  a  pause. 
Run  how  we  will,  or  where ;  however  mad 
We  chase  our  airy  bubbles,  and  account 
Prospective  bliss ;  however  bright  the  prize 
Alluring  us  on,  however  high  our  aims, 
And  wide  the  grasp  of  the  proud  intellect, 
Or  vast  our  hoards  uncounted — -here  we  pause  ; 
And  lay  aside  our  robes  of  vanity, 
And  lie  down  with  the  menial  and  the  slave. 
Humbling  the  thought !  most  humbling  this  of  pictures 
Held  up  for  poor  mortality  to  gaze  at, 
Dwell  on,  and  ponder,  and  grow  wise  therefrom — 
Most  abject  this !  and  to  the  soul  revolting ! 
And  therefore  thrust  aside  at  every  chance. 
Oh !  death,  thou  common  leveler — Oh !  earth, 
Thou  mother  of  the  living  and  the  dead — 
Oh !  grave,  thou  one  receptacle  for  all ! — 
Tell  us  the  secrets  that  we  fain  would  know ! 
Tell  us  how  many  in  your  silent  halls 
Repose  forgotten !     Disembogue  your  charge, 


26  MAN. 

Thou  dreadful  tomb — yawn  thou  upon  our  sight — 

And  let  us  gaze  into  your  phantom  realms, 

And  sing  your  triumphs !     Oh,  the  grave !  the  grave ! 

The  prison-house  of  every  earthly  joy — 

Earth's  prison-house,  and  mansion  of  earth's  all ! 

— Towards  it,  and  pressing  like  some  swollen  stream, 

Earth's  millions  tread  in  solemn  company, 

And  lay  them  down  together.     Hither  age, 

With  palsied  arm,  and  staff- supported  step, 

And  temples  silvered  with  the  frost  of  years, 

Prefers  his  claim,  and  welcomes  his  release  ; 

And  hither  youth  untimely  sorrowing — 

Or  grave,  or  gay,  or  noble,  or  distress'd — 

And  every  intermediate  grade,  from  that 

The  helpless  infant  of  a  moment's  span, 

To  him  who's  measur'd  out  his  century, 

Welcome  oblivion.     Here  enemies  lie — 

Spirits  that  thirsted  for  each  other's  blood, 

And  never  met  or  pass'd  without  a  frown 

Of  deadly  wrath.     Lo !  each  in  th'  other's  arms, 

Fondly  as  brothers  lock'd,  and  heart  to  heart, 

And  slumbering  out  their  everlasting  sleep ! 

Here  lies  the  warrior  whose  once  valorous  eye 

Shot  pale  dismay  along  the  shivering  ranks 

Of  craven  enemies,  whose  flashing  crest 

Stream'd  like  a  meteor,  and  whose  falchion's  stroke 

Was  portent  sure  of  death — how  pale  he  lies ! 

How  wan ! — how  ghastly  ! — 'Tis  corruption  all. 

The  hollow  sockets  stare  without  the  eyes, 

The  scalp  hangs  loosely  from  his  lion  brow, 


MAN.  27 

And  from  the  mouth,  whence  issued  the  decree 

Which  led  a  world,  the  shrivel'd  lips  have  peel'd, 

And  left  an  idiot's  grin.     Here  lies  the  wife 

Who  play'd  the  whore,  and  from  her  husband's  bed 

Went  an  adulteress : — God  struck  her  down, 

Midward  in  wickedness !  her  beauty  now, 

That  fatal  gift — a  surfeit  has  become 

For  noisome  worms.     Here  sleeps  the  tender  maid 

Who,  like  a  sweetly  blossoming  flower,  sprang  up, 

And  loved,  and  was  betray'd :  crush'd  every  hope 

At  one  fell  swoop  of  the  dread  conqueror ! 

Clos'd  are  the  eyelids  whence  shot  softer  rays 

Than  softest  even  star  of  the  red  west. 

The  cheek  of  Parian  beauty,  and  the  neck 

White  as  the  graceful  swan  that  skims  the  wave, 

The  bosom  whiter  than  the  lily's  bell, 

Or  driven  snow — oh,  what  repast  is  there, 

Fit  for  the  eye  of  darkness !     Those  soft  arms, 

That  clung  so  sweetly  to  her  lover's  neck — 

Ah !  had  he  seen  them  as  we  see  them  here, 

How  had  he  shrunk  from  their  embrace !     Here,  too, 

Th'  assassin  lies — he  who  so  covertly 

Sent  the  red  knife  into  his  fellow's  heart, 

And  clutch'd  his  gold ;  and  here  the  suicide, 

Who  dared  to  burst  the  shackles  God  imposed, 

And  come  uncall'd  before  him.     Lo !  the  wretch 

Mouthing  unhallow'dly  his  Maker's  name, 

Struck  down,  the  curse  yet  sticking  in  his  throat — 

Lesson  to  all !     And  lo !  the  greedy  knave, 

Who  cloak'd  himself  in  honor's  sacred  garb, 


ZO  MAX. 

And  robb'd  the  pious  widow  of  her  mite, 
And  stole  the  orphan's  bread.     Oh !  dreadful  Grave ! 
All  are  with  thee !     We  could  not,  if  we  would, 
Recount  thy  conquests  and  thy  princely  spoils ! 
Six  thousand  years  of  wretchedness  and  death, 
Their  generations  have  given  up  to  thee ; 
And  yet,  insatiable,  thou  ask'st  for  more — 
Us,  and  the  generations  yet  to  come ! 

And  yet,  dread  grave !  there  is  one  triumph  thought ! 
The  soul,  exultant,  grasps  it — and  is  wing'd 
Above  thee,  to  new  scenes  of  Light  and  Life 
Celestial — and  where  rapture-breathing  harps, 
And  string'd,  and  seraph  instruments,  ring  out 
Loud  hallelujahs,  and  immortal  song ! 
The  darkness  clears  away !  doubt  is  dispell'd ! 
Light  breaks !  thanks  to  our  re-arisen  King ! 
And  we  are  victors ! — thou  the  vanquish'd  one ! 
Ay !  and  from  Judah's  hills  flung  back  to  heaven, 
Thence  roll'd  in  thunder  round  from  world  to  world, 
The  cry  is — *  Christ,  oh,  Grave!  hath  vanquish'd  Thee!' 


THE 

INFLUENCE   OF    NATURE 

ON     THE 

INDIVIDUAL    MIND. 


" and  this  prayer  I  make, 

Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her ;  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings." 

Wordsworth. 


P  O  E  M . (4) 


OF  Nature,  and  the  influence  she  hath 
Upon  the  human  spirit,  and  with  what 
A  pleasing  sympathy  she  steals  the  heart 
Away  from  all  its  sorrows,  and  so  fits  us 
To  run  life's  rounds  rejoicing — would  I  sing. 
And  if  the  sounding  verse  shall  make  truth  sweeter, 
Then  is  the  poet  paid  for  all  his  toils; 
And  sweet  shall  be  his  food  for  after  thought, 
And  sweet  shall  be  the  thoughts  of  after  years, 
When  they  come  back  to  dwell  upon  this  scene — 
This  scene  of  solemn  beauty !  where  young  hearts, 
Burning  to  join  the  world,  stand  hand  in  hand, 
To  drop  a  few  sad  tears,  and  say  *  farewell !' 
— And  as  I  stand,  the  teacher  of  the  hour, 
And  with  a  gift,  Heaven  lent,  if  lent  at  all, 
I  lead  your  minds  off  into  faery  land — 
I  pray  you  welcome  me ;  and  should  the  Muse 
Grow  daring,  as  she  skims  o'er  the  green  earth, 
Or  dives  into  the  caverns  of  the  sea, 
Or  revels  on  the  golden  pave  of  heaven — 
Still  yield  ye  to  her  gentle  ministry ; 
Nor  deem  that  she  did  ever  leave  the  heart 

7 


32  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE. 

Less  holy,  or  less  fitted  for  the  world. 

— There  have  been  those  who  did  not  deem  it  well 

To  yield  the  warm  heart  thus,  and  there  have  been 

Who  did  not  deem  her  work  a  work  of  love ; 

But  O,  it  is  an  angel  ministry ! 

And  when  the  heart  is  wearied  with  its  cares, 

And  the  dull  plodding  of  this  duller  world, 

'Tis  sweet  to  turn  away  from  common  things, 

To  lose  the  sense  of  our  dependencies, 

To  all  forget  what  mortal  things  we  are, 

To  all  forget  what  earth  and  man  have  made  us, 

To  all  forget  how  we  are  linked  and  fetter'd 

As  eagles  with  dipt  pinions  in  the  dust — 

And,  borne  upon  the  reach  of  thought  sublime, 

Gather  the  lessons  of  a  better  world ! 

And  sure  we  need  such  lessons.     Look  abroad, 
How  all  of  us  do  tie  our  sympathies 
Down  to  this  world !  how  little  of  our  thought 
Is  given  to  things  that  profit  us !  how  few 
Of  all  our  actions  tell  that  solemn  truth, 
We're  living  for  Eternity !  how  small 
The  space  we  give  to  lay  that  wisdom  up, 
The  wisdom  shall  go  with  us  to  the  grave ! 
How  careless  are  we  of  the  godlike  gifts 
We  feel  are  ours !     The  glorious  and  great  mind, 
Its  matchless  and  unmeasured  energies, 
The  which  the  wide  world  cannot  circumscribe ; 
The  which  can  go  'mid  the  rejoicing  things, 
The  loveliness,  the  beauty,  and  the  life 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  33 

Nature  spreads  round  us,  and  there  show  itself 

A  counterpart  of  that  Invisible  mind 

Which  lives,  and  thinks,  and  breathes,  in  every  thing ; 

The  which  has  power  to  write  itself  immortal, 

To  sweep  the  sky,  to  number  all  the  stars, 

To  measure  their  capacities,  and  powers, 

And  times,  and  motions,  and  thus,  as  it  were, 

To  tie  the  glittering  heavens  to  the  world ; 

The  which  has  power  to  roam  beyond  the  stars, 

To  track  its  way  beyond  remotest  bounds 

Of  space  or  being,  follow  up  the  light 

To  the  Eternal  fountain  of  all  light, 

And  there  be  merged  in  the  pure  Godhead's  beam ; 

This  same  proud  mind  of  ours — how  do  we  give 

Its  infinite  and  godlike  faculties 

To  gods  of  our  own  making !  how  we  turn 

The  eye  which,  like  the  eagle's,  should  be  fixed 

Full  in  the  blaze  of  Heaven,  and  give  ourselves 

To  brutal  pleasures,  mating  with  the  dust ! 

— We  are  the  creatures  of  a  fantasy, 

We  live  in  nought  but  dreams.     A  shadow  hath 

More  that  will  win  us,  than  the  palpable 

And  proper  forms  of  things.     A  single  ray 

Of  an  impure  philosophy,  can  draw  us 

From  truth  itself.     We  can  delight  ourselves 

By  the  dull  stream  that  flows  from  it,  and  drink, 

Although  we  know  'tis  poison.     This  we  do 

Day  after  day.     The  wise  ones  and  the  good — 

They  who  have  gone  before  us — have  no  voice 

To  reach  our  ears.     The  priceless  gems  their  lips 


34  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE. 

Scatter  abroad  like  ashes,  we,  in  turn, 

Tread  on — and  perish.     Intellectual  worth 

Of  other  ages,  purity  and  truth, 

A  virtuous  and  civil  liberty, 

Grandeur  and  goodness ;  these  which,  if  obeyed, 

Might  build  us  up,  and  give  that  nourishment 

The  sick  man  covets — these  are  things  we  use 

Only  to  be  our  curse.     We  will  not  choose 

To  walk  the  ways  of  wisdom,  though  her  paths 

Invite  us  smilingly :  we  rather  turn ; 

And,  with  the  two  before  us,  choose  the  one 

Shrouded  in  darkness.     Maxims  and  false  creeds, 

Dogmas  and  truths,  so  named — yet  false  as  hell — 

These  we  embrace,  and  weave  from  them  a  mesh 

That  might  deceive  an  angel.     This  is  decked, 

And  garnished  out,  and  writ  upon,  and  sealed, 

And  sanctified  by  age,  and  on  the  world 

Is  foisted,  and  is  called — philosophy ! 

True  wisdom,  the  meanwhile,  lifts  up  her  voice, 

Yet  lifts  in  vain.  Strange !  strange !  O,  more  than  strange ! 

Strange  !  that  it  takes  so  long  to  learn  a  truth 

Which  blazes  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave ! 

Strange !  that  it  takes  so  long  to  learn  a  truth 

Written  among  the  stars  in  bands  of  fire, 

And  braided  over  all  the  Universe ! 

Philosophy !  that  other  name  for  thought — 
And  wisdom,  when  that  thought  is  purified — 
And  holiness,  when  God  hath  sanctioned  it — 
How  shall  we,  in  these  dim  and  twilight  times, 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  35 

Approach  thy  fount,  and  drink  at  thy  pure  stream  ? 

Six  thousand  years  have  thirsty  cavilers  [thirst, 

Despised  the  draught  that  might  have  quench'd  their 

And  torn  for  aye  the  scales  from  their  dimm'd  eyes, 

And  bade  them  look  unawed  at  the  pure  beam 

Which  flows  from  thee ;  and  yet  their  wisest  ones — 

The  great,  the  good,  the  glorious  of  earth ! 

What  have  they  done  but  shame  thy  purity, 

Obscure  the  plain,  involve  complexities, 

Till  in  the  maze  where  error's  self  runs  mad, 

They've  sat  them  down,  and  dreamedth&t  they  were  free  1 

— Egyptia  sleeps  in  silence.     The  soft  light 

Of  mild  philosophy's  aye  cheering  beam 

That  'lumed  her  altars,  shed  a  dying  smile 

Over  her  desecration,  and  went  out ; 

And  now  the  darkness  and  the  level  waste 

Where  stood  her  temples,  hear  the  long  lone  howl 

Of  desert  beasts  that  dig  their  caves  unscared. 

Yet  truth  died  not :  and  her  philosophies, 

Though  cumber'd  down  with  error  and  o'erwhelmed, 

Had  much  of  truth.    Her  prophets,  priests,  and  kings — 

Like  comets,  when  they  traverse  the  high  heavens, 

Flung  back  their  brightness ;  and  when  Media 

Its  hosts  poured  forth  (an  iron  sea  of  waves) 

And  whelmed  her  in  their  passage — light  went  forth, 

Glanced  round  th'  Egean  and  her  hundred  Isles, 

Till  Greece  and  Italy  blazed  bright,  and  altars 

Gleamed  on  their  mighty  shores.  The  sky  was  bright — 

Miletus  saw  it  and  great  Thales  lived, 

And  bade  the  mind  go  free.     Crotona's  sage 


36  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE. 

Caught  the  enrapturing  beam :  his  eager  mind 

Rose  to  the  stars  and  bound  them  in  their  orbs, 

And  gave  the  key  to  man.     And  Socrates, 

Whose  influence  like  the  light  on  good  men's  graves — 

Then  he  arose ;  and  Plato,  and  the  Stagyrite, 

Until,  like  congregated  stars,  their  beams 

United  seemed,  overspreading  the  wide  world ! 

— Yet  freedom  lagg'd :  the  mind  hung  back  aghast, 

And  wonder'd  at  itself.     The  heaven-plumed  bird 

Smote  not  with  level  wing  the  fields  of  air — 

Its  proper  home ;  but,  stooping  from  that  height, 

Hugg'd  its  foul  chains,  and  mingled  with  the  dust. 

And  why  ?  because  that  fountain's  purity 

Was  less  than  pure,  and  mind  would  thirst  again. 

Like  waters  filter'd  through  a  shallow  soil, 

Wisdom  welled  up  in  the  benighted  soul, 

And  it  was  tainted.     Thought  was  not  pure  thought ! 

Wisdom  was  not  true  wisdom !  and  man's  free — 

His  great  and  glorious  energies,  were  shackled 

With  gyves  of  iron !     Rome  sprang  into  being, 

Swelled  unto  vastness,  and  then  passed  away — 

Because  she  was  not  free  !    It  is  not  freedom 

To  tread  on  prostrate  nations,  and  o'erwhelm 

And  desecrate  their  altars ;  'tis  not  freedom 

To  send  the  Doric  column  to  the  skies, 

Pile  towers  on  towers,  and  build  up  mausoleums 

To  human  vanity ;  it  is  not  freedom 

To  make  the  marble  speak,  the  canvass  glow, 

The  heart  leap  into  eloquence,  or  trip 

To  the  light  numbers  of  the  poet's  reed ; 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  37 

This  is  not  freedom !     But  it  is  when  mind, 

'  Struck  from  the  burning  essence  of  its  God,' 

Lives  for  high  action,  aims,  and  purposes, 

Comporting  with,  and  dignified  by  Truth ! 

This  is  tnie  freedom,  which,  when  overlooked 

By  the  strong  errors  of  perverted  nature, 

At  once  strips  mind  of  mind's  prerogatives, 

Cripples  its  splendid  powers,  and  makes  the  man, 

That  vilest  thing  on  earth — a  shackled  slave ! 

— Europe  was  such  a  slave  a  thousand  years, 

And  hugg'd  the  dust.     The  light  that  burnt  so  pure 

In  heathen  Socrates,  went  up  to  Heaven 

At  his  translation ;  and  the  human  mind 

(Part  freed,  and  now  flung  back  upon  itself,) 

Like  an  erratic  star,  then  shot  away 

Wild  from  its  orbit,  and  went  flaming  on, 

To  wander  in  the  solitude  and  'blackness 

Of  darkness'  ever  and  ever !     Here  behold 

A  picture  of  philosophy — or,  rather, 

A  picture  of  the  mind  when  unbaptized 

In  the  pure  fountain  which  the  Godhead  beams ! 

'Tis  all  unfit  for  us.     We  cannot  drink, 

But  the  strong  mind  of  man  will  thirst  again. 

We  need  a  purer  element.     We  need 

A  something  that  shall  fresh  the  fever'd  lip, 

Cool  the  hot  brow,  and  stop  the  ringing  brain, 

And  pour  a  purer  flood-tide  through  the  heart — 

We  need  a  something  that  doth  come  from  Heaven ! 

O  !  'tis  the  thirst  of  man's  immortal  nature, 

Mated  and  chain'd  here  to  its  gods  of  clay ! 


38  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE. 

It  is  the  thirst  which  writes  him  glorious, 
And  gifted  like  the  golden  hosts  of  heaven ! 
For  in  the  solemn  chambers  of  the  soul, 
The  startling  secret  lives,  of  its  great  powers ; 
And  hence  we  weary  on  from  day  to  day, 
And  feel  a  void  the  world  can  never  fill ! 

Hence  the  strong  thirst  in  man,  to  set  himself 
High,  where  the  world  shall  see  him  as  they  run ; 
Hence  the  strong  feeling  to  perpetuate, 
And  write  one's  name  in  light  among  the  stars ; 
And,  sure,  it  is  an  independency 
In  character  and  keeping  with  his  powers ; 
And  sure,  the  mind,  well  train'd,  may  rouse  itself, 
And  ruffle  its  proud  pinions  to  be  free ; 
But,  yet,  it  is  a  sad  experiment — 
This  giving  it  to  freedom — for  the  world, 
And  these  bright  glorious  objects  that  we  see, 
Have  so  much  in  them  that  is  vanity, 
They  only  lead  astray,  and  soil  its  wings. 
— Man  is  a  gifted  being.     There  is  that 
In  the  eternal  temper  of  his  mind, 
Which  showeth  his  affinity  to  Heaven ! 
And  greatness  sits  upon  him  naturally ! 
And  goodness — when  the  bad  world  is  shut  out, 
And  virtue — when  the  heart  lives  in  itself, 
And  sweetness — when  its  sweet  streams  all  are  free ; 
And  woman  gives  him  her  warm  heart  to  keep, 
And  children  climb  his  knee  and  lisp  his  name, 
And  widows  call  down  blessings  on  his  head, 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  39 

And  orphans  steep  his  ashes  in  their  tears, 

And  he  is  that  bright  being  Heaven  design Jd ! 

— But  in  him  is  another  principle 

Godlike  and  great,  and  in  his  hours  of  ease 

It  cometh  with  a  voice  of  witchery, 

And  giveth  his  strong  spirit  to  the  world. 

It  is  Ambition !  and  upon  his  heart, 

Robing  itself  like  a  fallen  child  of  light, 

It  sits  and  breathes  a  madness  in  his  ears. 

Around  his  brow  it  wreathes  a  band  of  fire, 

Within  his  grasp  a  sceptre,  and  his  foot 

Treads  proudly  over  graves  and  dead  men's  skulls. 

Virtue  is  all  forgotten ;  all  his  dreams, 

Distempered  by  the  madness  of  his  heart, 

Are  foul,  and  his  great  thoughts  are  thoughts  of  blood. 

Peace  is  his  discord ;  the  soft  slavery 

Of  the  domestic  circle  is  despised, 

And  woman  is  the  plaything  of  his  lust, 

And  virtue  is  a  thing  that  hath  no  name. 

And  so  it  leads  him  on,  till,  tearing  out 

One  after  one  the  virtues  from  his  heart, 

It  sends  him  to  the  grave — without  one  tear. 

O,  if  in  this  hush'd  multitude  before  me, 
There  dwell  ambition's  victim — if  there  be 
One  bosom  beating  with  unholy  fire — 
I  pray  you,  take  a  better  counselor ! 
And  if  you  will,  the  poet  shall  be  yours, 
And  we  will  walk  together  in  the  fields, 
And  I  will  open  with  you  that  sweet  book, 

8 


40  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE. 

Writ  in  the  loveliest  language  of  the  world. 
It  is  the  book  of  Nature ;  often  scorned, 
Yet  not  the  less  a  book,  and  fill'd  with  truth 
Such  as  the  careless  scholar  hath  not  learned. 
It  needs  a  gift  to  read  it ;  common  minds 
Are  all  too  proud  to  win  its  unbought  truths, 
And  passion  here  is  an  unholy  thing. 
It  doth  not  come  with  study,  nor  is  bought 
By  unwise  maxims,  or  the  saws  of  books  ; 
The  wisdom  of  the  schools  is  out  of  place, 
Its  cumb'rous  nothings  must  be  thrown  away, 
And  the  heart  nurtured  into  confidence, 
Must  all  give  up  its  boasted  habitude, 
And  go  back  to  the  meekness  of  a  child. 
Then  will  she  take  the  wanderer  by  the  hand, 
And  she  will  lead  him  on  from  step  to  step, 
And  she  will  lead  him  up  from  height  to  height, 
And  she  will  show  him  beauty  in  all  things, 
And  she  will  teach  him  true  humility, 
And  what  an  ugly  thing  is  human  pride. 
And  she  will  show  him  how  the  world  is  crazed, 
And  what  a  foolish  grief  is  at  its  heart, 
And  how  it  turns  away  from  happiness, 
And  how  it  loves  to  feed  itself,  and — starve. 
And  all  is  pure  with  her.     There  is  no  need 
To  measure,  and  combine,  and  separate ; 
The  lesson  that  she  reads  is  one  great  whole, 
A  part  of  which  when  gained  shall  give  you  all. 
It  only  needs  a  pure  and  teachable  spirit, 
And  she  becomes  the  veriest  prodigal, 
And  is  of  her  rich  bounties  free  as  Heaven. 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  41 

The  humble  and  the  gifted  boy  she  loves. 
And  to  him,  in  his  hours  of  solitude, 
And  to  him,  in  the  coolness  of  the  morn, 
And  in  the  dewy  hush  of  eve,  she  comes ; 
And  if  his  state  be  poor,  she  makes  him  rich, 
And  if  his  heart  be  sad,  she  makes  it  light, 
And  if  his  heart  be  chilled,  she  makes  it  warm, 
Because  she  gives  him  what  God  gives  to  all — 
A  portion  of  the  universal  air, 
A  portion  of  the  blue  of  the  far  sky, 
And  of  the  sweetness  that  is  sent  abroad 
By  brooks  and  bees  and  birds  among  the  hills ! 
This  is  all  his,  and  he  can  feel  it  his, 
And  none  can  take  this  noble  wealth  away. 
He  can  go  out  in  the  clear  days  of  Spring, 
And  he  can  feel  a  something  at  his  heart, 
The  which  the  great  world  cannot  understand. 
The  silence  and  the  night  are  friends  to  him, 
Because  he  has  within  a  gifted  eye, 
And  when  the  outward  world  is  all  shut  out, 
He  can  refurnish  with  the  past  his  dreams, 
And  thus  make  solitude  a  little  world 
Peopled  with  fancies  which  he  knows  are  friends. 
He  has  an  eye  for  beauty,  such  as  never 
Beameth  on  common  men.     The  merest  leaf, 
The  golden  glance  of  wings,  the  level  plain 
With  its  magnificent  sweep  of  cloud -capp'd  hills, 
Propping  the  very  heavens — all  this  is  his ! 
He  has  an  ear  for  music  too.     The  breeze 
Dances  among  the  locks  of  his  bright  brow, 


42  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE. 

And  breathes  into  his  heart.     The  choral  burst — 
The  anthem  that  the  broad  fresh  world  sends  up — 
Its  jubilee ;  the  silver  and  sweet  streams 
Singing  for  happiness ;  the  bees,  the  birds, 
And  the  soft  music  that  his  fancy  brings 
In  from  the  rolling  spheres — all  this  is  his ! 
You  cannot  take  it  from  him,  for  the  gift 
Was  given  him  with  being,  and  it  is 
As  priceless  as  the  attributes  of  Heaven. 

Have  you  not  sometimes  felt,  in  those  calm  hours 
When  the  wild  pulse  of  pleasure  had  run  down, 
And  life  had  all  become  a  weariness — 
When  you  have  turn'd  away  from  the  wild  whirl, 
Its  madness  and  its  mockeries,  and  space 
Was  given  for  reflection,  and  those  thoughts 
That  do  administer  to  the  sick  soul, 
And  soften  it  when  fretted  by  the  world — 
When  you  have  thus  turned  off,  perhaps  at  morn 
When  the  bright  flood  of  life  came  pouring  in 
After  the  morning  star,  or  noon,  or  at  calm  eve 
When  the  soft  twilight  had  come  quivering  down, 
And  with  a  presence  like  deep  holiness 
Press'd  on  your  spirit — or  when  deeper  night 
Had  flung  its  solemn  shadows  over  things, 
And  the  loud-voiced  streams  had  louder  grown, 
And  the  light  rivulet,  that  ran  all  day 
With  a  continuous  murmur,  and  a  tone 
Of  joy  self  satisfied,  more  shrilly  piped — 
When  sleep  lay  on  the  valleys,  and  a  soft 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  43 

And  silvery  veil  hung  round  upon  the  hills, 
And  over  all,  the  circumambient  walls 
Of  heaven,  with  its  bright  innumerable  points 
Of  sparkling  flame,  bent  down  upon  the  scene- 
Have  you  not  felt  a  something  at  your  heart, 
As  if  an  angel  had  been  pleading  there  ? — 
A  something  in  you  soft'ning  to  all  things, 
Even  the  meanest  things  that  God  has  made  ? — 
Until,  while  sweet  thoughts  gush'd  up  into  tears, 
You  have  knelt  down  and  prayed  for  the  world  1 
— O,  when  my  heart  has  ached,  and  I  have  felt 
As  if  this  world  had  cast  me  from  its  love, 
The  young,  and  the  beloved,  and  beautiful ; 
When  I  have  paused,  and  with  a  half-formed  curse 
Upon  my  lips,  and  thoughts  of  bitterness 
Have  crowded  up  so  fast,  and  forced  the  tears, 
The  mad,  mad  tears  into  my  woman  eyes, 
Until,  tired  with  the  dashing  them  away, 
I've  let  them  unrepress'd  steal  silent  down ; 
In  such  sad  moments — and  there's  not  a  heart 
That's  gifted  with  the  sensibility 
That's  given  brutes,  but  can  count  over  such 
Many  and  bitter — in  such  moments  I 
Have  left  my  dwelling,  and  gone  forth  alone 
Beneath  the  sky  of  midnight,  when  the  stars 
Shone  from  their  habitations,  and  the  moon, 
The  young  and  beautiful  moon,  looked  like  a  spirit 
Sent  from  a  purer  region ;  and  its  mild 
And  most  unearthly  light  has  won  its  way 
Quick  to  my  madden'd  feelings,  and  my  heart, 


44  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE. 

The  throbs  of  my  proud  yet  most  injured  heart, 
Have  hushed  themselves  beneath  its  influence, 
As  doth  the  breathings  of  a  child,  that  sinks 
From  sorrow  to  the  quiet  arms  of  sleep. 
And  as  that  soothing  and  most  heavenly  calm 
Has  come  upon  me,  I  have  thought  that  earth 
Was  a  sweet  spot  to  dwell  in ;  that  its  thousand 
And  tens  of  thousand  varied  influences — 
Its  waters  and  its  winds,  its  sounds  by  day 
And  melodies  by  night — had  something  dearer 
Than  witchery  in  them ;  that  they  were  the  voices 
Of  the  Invisible,  whispering  in  these, 
His  most  neglected  agencies,  that  truth 
Which  he  would  write  upon  the  soul  of  man ! 
And  I  have  thought  that  man  was  not  thus  vile 
As  I  had  deemed  him — that  revengeful  being, 
Stern  and  relentless,  dark  e'en  in  his  love, 
And  darker  in  the  moments  of  his  pride ; 
That  I  had  wronged  him — and  a  soften'd  feeling 
Fraternal  has  come  gushing  through  my  heart, 
And  I  have  knelt  down  on  the  cold  damp  earth 
With  naught  but  night  around  me,  naught  above 
Save  the  deep  heavens  and  the  eternal  stars 
Which  God  has  hung  there,  and — have  pardoned  all. 

And  I  would  write  this  lesson  on  your  hearts 
With  a  fraternal  feeling ;  I  would  fix 
This  truth,  which  I  did  never  learn  from  books, 
Upon  th'  eternal  tablet  of  your  souls  ; 
So  that  in  after  life,  where'er  you  are, 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  45 

And  you  are  soured  or  sicken'd  with  life's  ills, 
You  may  have  one  sweet  friendship  stored  away, 
Where  you  may  give  your  sorrows  and  your  tears. 
And  for  this  end  I  will  relate  to  you 
A  dream — a  dream  I  had  long  years  ago ; 
And  it  shall  show  you  in  a  newer  light, 
The  witching  ministry  of  natural  things, 
To  take  the  spirit  back  and  keep  it  pure, 
When  it  hath  been  imprison'd  by  the  world. 


THE     DREAM. 

I  had  a  dream. 

Summer  was  o'er  the  earth 
With  her  flush  matronly  hues,  and  she  had  flung 
Her  loveliest  garlands  down,  and  there  beneath 
The  gentle  softness  of  a  quiet  sky, 
The  landscape  slept  in  beauty.     Not  a  breath, 
Or  wing  of  bird,  were  heard  through  the  wide  heaven, 
Nor  idled  there  a  single  lazy  cloud ; 
But  all  was  bright  as  the  fresh  penciling 
That  doth  distain  the  violet.     The  waters, 
Theirs  was  the  only  melody  I  heard — 
(Save  that  inaudible  music  which  is  born 
Of  Silence,  and  her  sister  Solitude) 
And,  lured  by  these  soft  sounds,  I  hill-ward  turned ; 
And  up  a  channel'd  rift,  whence  leapt  a  brook 
Sparkling  with  foam,  I  hurried  me  alert ; 
And  on  a  carpet  of  the  mountain  moss, 


46  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE. 

Laid  me  as  silily  as  a  pleased  child, 

To  drink  earth's  beauty  in.     For  I  had  been 

Early,  a  lover  of  rocks,  and  solitudes, 

And  woods,  and  waters ;  and  they  had  the  power 

To  steal  me  from  my  sadness,  when  the  world 

Stung  me  with  its  ingratitude,  or  when 

I  sighed  for  my  own  heart,  which,  like  a  reed,       . 

Bent  to  its  base-born  passions.     Thitherward 

I  turned,  and  laid  me  on  the  breezy  fern, 

Silent  and  pleased ;  until  the  outward  sense 

Of  beauty,  and  the  outward  forms  of  things 

Pass'd  from  before  me,  and  I  silent  slept — 

The  victim  of  a  revery. 

I  dreamed 

I  saw  a  pale-faced,  melancholy  boy 
That  might  have  seen  twelve  summers.    He  was  seated 
Among  his  equals ;  and  a  holiday 
With  its  accompanyings — loud  laughs,  and  jests, 
And  boisterous  mirth — sped  merrily ;  and  there 
Were  those  around  him  that  did  tender  him 
A  most  peculiar  love,  a  tenderness 
Such  as  one  gives  a  sister.     In  his  face 
Little  you'd  mark  that  pleased  at  a  first  glance, 
Or  little  to  blame.     You  saw  indeed,  a  boy 
Of  sweet,  though  mournful  countenance ;  but  yet 
It  was  the  solemn  stillness  of  his  eye 
That  startled  you,  and  made  you  turn  again 
To  note  the  lad.     The  jest,  the  sharp  quick  laugh, 
The  whoop,  the  joyous  shout — you  could  but  note 
His  pain'd  and  working  features  as  they  rang 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  47 

Louder  and  louder,  and  you'd  see  him  turn 
And  rest  his  forehead  on  his  thin  pale  hand, 
And  sorrow  bitterly.     Then  would  his  mates 
Gather  and  soothe  him,  as  aware  their  mirth 
Had  grieved  him ;  and  as  if  they  had  forgot 
In  their  wild  joyance,  him  they  loved  and  knew 
Was  of  so  tender  a  spirit ;  and  as  they  circled, 
And  sat  them  there  upon  the  turf  around, 
He'd  lay  his  head  upon  a  fellow's  lap, 
And  seem  to  be  slumbering.  v 

Then  the  vision  changed — 
I  saw  that  boy  again.     He  seemed  a  restless 
And  most  peculiar  spirit — to  himself 
A  burden,  and  to  those  that  clung  to  him, 
A  dear,  yet  strange  companion  ;  for  his  heart 
Was  sensitive  as  a  woman's,  and  he  loved 
And  hated  with  a  suddenness  that  made 
His  eccentricities  weakness.     Things  that  pleased 
And  won  the  love  of  others,  pleased  not  him, 
Or  pleased  him  little.     Suddenly  he'd  seize, 
Fierce  as  a  starveling,  on  some  single  thing 
He  deem'd  would  give  him  pleasure — then  as  sudden 
Cast  it  aside  with  a  heart-sickening  hate, 
And  weep  his  disappointment.     Books  he  sought, 
And  made  him  a  reputation  with  them.     Oft 
He  wearied  out  the  long  unsocial  night, 
And  dived  into  the  subtlest  theories — 
In  silliest  theories,  mysteries,  reasonings, 
And  truths  sublime  he  wearied — and  then  threw  them 
Aside  disgusted.     Wealth  he  had  in  hoards, 

9 


48  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE. 

And  pictures  he  bought,  and  statues,  such  as  where 

The  soul  speaks  from  the  marble,  and  the  high 

And  living  attributes  of  angels — these 

He  worship'd,  and  then  hated  them.     At  last, 

Sick  with  himself — sick  with  the  chase  for  something 

To  gorge  the  deathless  craving  at  his  heart — 

He  took  a  beggar's  sandals,  scrip,  and  staff, 

And  turned  him  to  the  silence  of  the  hills, 

The  old  magnificent  mountains,  where  the  forests, 

Slumbering  for  ages  in  the  solitudes, 

Their  lightning  scorch'd,  primeval  branches  threw 

Upward  in  many  a  fold,  and  the  gray  rocks, 

Gigantic  as  the  fragments  of  a  world, 

Frown'd  in  their  silent  massiveness,  and  the  cataract 

Shook  with  its  anthem  the  deep  wilderness. 

And  there  he  sat  him  down,  and,  strange  to  him, 

He  felt  a  peace  pervading  his  whole  heart — 

A  bliss  of  feeling,  such  as  earth  till  then 

Had  never  proffered  him.     A  feeling  new, 

And  thrilling  and  powerful  as  new,  awoke ; 

A  spirit  had  seemed  to  pass  o'er  all,  imparting 

A  portion  of  its  spirituality ; 

And  such  a  sympathy  was  at  his  heart 

With  all  around  him — rocks,  hills,  woods  and  streams — 

He  seemed  transformed  into  another's  being. 

Nature  a  freshness  wore,  a  melancholy 

Yet  a  most  witching  aspect.     Things  that  once 

He  gazed  upon  in  listless  apathy, 

Became  a  source  of  interest.     The  streams 

That  rippled  by  him,  had  a  mirth  in  them 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  49 

They  never  had  before ;  the  small  wood  birds 

Whistled  in  pleasanter  cadence ;  and  the  wind 

That  whisper'd  in  the  pine  tops,  seemed  to  him 

So  like  a  spiritual  presence,  that  he  gazed 

As  if  he  would  win  to  his  visual  orb, 

The  substanceless  shadow.     Then  he  rose,  and  stood, 

And  shouted  his  joy ! — the  dim-lit  forest  aisles 

Prolonged  the  shout,  and  the  gray  rocks  around 

Mimick'd  his  gladness.     Far  into  the  heart 

Of  the  old  forest,  as  a  creature  newly 

Burst  into  glorious  action,  life,  thought,  powers, 

Feeling,  and  sympathy — sensation  all ! 

He  hurried.     By  the  borders  of  the  streams 

That  wind  far  up  into  the  innermost  haunts 

Of  solitude.     Mid  thickets,  and  the  springs, 

And  dells,  and  bosky  bornes,  where  gushed  all  day 

The  wood-bird's  melancholy  plaint,  unanswer'd 

Save  by  the  brook's  wild  laughter.     'JNeath  the  cliffs, 

Where,  crumbl'd  headlong  down  and  dash'd  and  wedg'd, 

Vast  rocks  and  shatter'd  slabs  lay  piles  on  piles, 

Strown  by  the  thunder.     On  the  highest  peaks 

Blacken'd  and  bleak,  whose  rugged  capitals 

Breasted  the  north,  and  battled  with  the  storms 

First  in  the  upper  heaven ;  where  never  a  leaf 

Shook  in  the  south  wind,  nor  a  single  bird 

Stoop'd  for  its  eyrie.     Where  he  could  drink  in, 

With  a  wild  pleasure,  the  wide  stretch  of  wood, 

And  field  and  fell  and  flood,  and  the  far  sweep 

Of  the  magnificent  circuit  of  the  heavens, 

Which,  coming  down  upon  this  lower  world, 


50  THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE. 

Did  seem  to  rest  its  pillars  on  the  hills, 

Shutting  them  round,  and  framing  a  temple  vast 

For  man  to  worship  in.      Where  he  might  hear, 

Roll'd  up  with  many  a  murmur  from  below, 

The  voice  of  the  forest,  which,  shook  by  the  wind, 

Heaved  in  long  swells  like  waves  that  swing  and  strike 

The  shore  of  ocean.     A  quick  thrill,  a  shock 

Electrical,  shot  vivid  through  his  frame, 

Bringing  a  newer  life ;  and  (former  things 

Loosing  their  thousand  folds  about  his  heart,) 

The  soften'd  images  of  natural  forms, 

And  hues,  and  shapes  of  joy,  his  soul  filled  full; 

Until  his  heart  beat  with  a  pulse  and  power 

That  lifted  up  his  being,  and  he  felt 

His  INDIVIDUAL  MIND  a  counterpart 

Of  the  vast  universe ! 

The  vision  changed. 
I  saw  that  boy  within  the  city's  bounds, 
When  these  high,  holy  dreamings  had  grown  coarse, 
And  he  had,  like  an  eagle  dash'd  in  dust, 
Come  down  from  his  proud  altitude,  and  given 
His  life  unto  base  pleasures ;  when  that  sweet 
And  inward  revelation  of  the  life 
Which  is  in  Nature,  was  a  letter  dead 
Now  to  his  readings,  and  he  had  forgot 
The  harmony  which  once  had  filled  his  soul 
With  such  sweet  passions.     Like  a  harp,  a  broken  one, 
Which  still  retained  the  half  of  its  first  sweetness — 
His  heart  would  ring  the  changes ;  yet  its  gloom, 
And  mockery  of  past  hours,  did  make  him  loth 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  51 

T'repeat  the  strain,  and  so,  in  one  mad  hour, 

He  closed  his  ears  for  ever.     Purposing  so — 

But  listen !  he  could  never  change  his  nature. 

The  heart,  though  we  do  shut  it  to  the  voice 

Of  its  humanities,  in  bitter  moments 

Will,  sicken'd  with  its  vain  philosophies, 

Turn  back  to  the  fresh  fountains  of  gone  years, 

Meek  as  a  child  with  its  first  thirst  unslaked. 

And  ofttimes  in  his  solitudes  would  come 

The  voice  of  waters,  and  they  would  leap  up 

Sparkling  and  clear  amid  the  dells  and  steeps 

Of  his  own  native  mountains,  and  their  voices 

Would  seem  so  like  realities,  that  oft 

The  still  sad  whispers  of  that  exquisite 

And  passionate  love  of  beauty,  might  be  heard 

Echoing  through  all  the  chambers  of  his  heart. 

And  in  these  moments,  in  its  own  true  light, 

Would  rise  upon  him  his  inglorious  life, 

And,  gathering  force,  the  charm  would  almost  break 

That  fetter'd  him,  and  would  his  life  go  back 

Unto  its  early  freshness.     Then  would  tears, 

Scalding  and  fast,  burn  furrows  in  his  cheek — 

His  yet  youth's  cheek ;  and  conscience,  for  as  yet 

Conscience  had  powers,  read  him  the  memories 

Of  moments  hallowed  by  the  soft  regards 

Of  beauty,  and  high  excellence,  and  virtue, 

— The  gift  of  a  more  sweet  philosophy 

Than  guilt  has  skill  to  fashion.     He  would  hear 

The  music  of  his  innocent  gay  years, 

The  soften'd  pleadings  of  parental  hearts 


52  THE    INFLUENCE    OF   NATURE. 

Mingled  in  prayer  for  him,  and  too  would  come 

The  hours  when  his  own  sinless  feelings  went 

Up  to  the  God  of  Heaven.     Then  when  all 

The  force  of  natural  reason,  and  the  low 

Deep  whispers  of  Divinity  within, 

Offer'd  him  freedom,  would  he  burst  away 

As  if  to  win  it — yet  turn  back  again, 

And  be  to  his  rebellious  passions,  a 

Worse  slave  than  ever.     Oh !  'tis  sad !  most  sad  ! 

The  heart  that's  fallen  of  virtue,  and  would  turn 

To  virtue  once  again,  finds  little  there 

To  aid  its  frailties ;  for  with  that  fall, 

Losing  the  will  was  but  that  error's  half — 

It  loses  the  power  of  change,  and,  too,  the  eye 

Which  once  made  virtue  pleasing. 

Then  it  changed, 

I  saw  that  boy  a  man — and  he  was  chang'd. 
The  eye  had  lost  its  restlessness,  the  lip 
Its  madd'ning  sensibility,  and  he 
Did  walk  and  talk  as  meekly  as  a  child, 
Loving  all  things.     I  stood  beside  him  now, 
And  gathered  wisdom — it  was  like  a  stream 
Flowing  from  mines  of  gold.     When  morning  came, 
Strange  for  its  very  freshness,  we  went  out 
Together  to  the  hills,  and  spent  the  day 
Kindly  as  brothers.     All  his  pride  has  gone, 
And  in  its  place  did  gush  up  from  his  heart 
Such  a  sweet  feeling  of  humanity, 
He  talked  me  into  tears.     The  simplest  flower 
Laid  by  our  pathway,  insects  for  the  first 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  53 

Trying  their  thin  wings  in  the  dewy  beam, 
And  e'en  the  breeze  that  dallied  with  the  twigs 
Of  the  gigantic  forest  tops,  had  something 
That  linked  his  spirit  by  association 
I  understood  not,  with  that  other  world 
Made  for  the  pure  in  heart.     The  world  to  him — 
The  busied  world  he  had  cast  from  his  heart, 
But  not  his  love.     He  felt  it  was  his  brother, 
Men  were  his  brethren.     The  same  air  was  theirs 
To  live  and  breathe  in ;  the  same  sky  bent  down 
To  whisper,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
Benevolence,  and  to  distill  on  man 
The  dew  of  its  rich  blessings ;  but  its  passions, 
O !  he  had  got  beyond  them,  and  their  whirl 
Disturbed  him  not.     Its  knowledge  had  he  tried — 
It  gnawed  his  lip  like  ashes.     Fame,  renown, 
Ambition — they  were  nothing  now  to  him ; 
What  more  was  needed  1     He  had  learned  to  see 
Things  as  they  are.     He  saw  men  rush  on  death 
Despising  truth,  and  flinging  Heaven  away 
To  feed  on  folly ;  and,  by  Nature  taught — 
This  reflex  influence  of  th'  Incomprehensible — 
His  heart  now  loved  true  wisdom,  and  his  hope 
Was  on  the  Rock  of  Ages. 

I  awoke ! 

But  on  my  heart  there  was  a  truth  writ  down 
I  have  forgot  not ;  it  has  been  with  me 
Now  for  long  years ;  and  when  my  heart  grows  strong, 
And  my  pride  masters  reason,  I  have  sought  it ; 
And  when  the  world  has  deem'd  that  I  cared  not, 


54  THE    INFLUENCE    OF   NATURE. 

And  call'd  me  cold  or  proud — I  have  been  kneeling 
Alone  with  God,  weeping  away  my  shame. 

This  is  the  lesson — love,  love  all  the  world  ! 
He  wrongs  his  nature  who  has  learned  to  hate. 
God  hath  made  nothing  man  should  dare  despise. 
The  fountains,  and  the  feelings,  and  the  thoughts 
That  make  up  virtue,  He  hath  so  advised, 
Shall  only  bring  the  heart  true  happiness, 
And  he  but  starves  himself  who  turns  away. 
The  natural  passion  of  the  heart  is  virtue, 
Its  streams  flow  backward  when  hate  centers  there ; 
It  lives  in  its  affections,  and  the  man 
With  a  warm  bosom  may  look  down  on  kings ! 
The  world  has  more  of  truth  in't  than  appears. 
He's  but  half  villain  who  seems  wholly  so.. 
Nero  was  all  a  villain,  yet  one  heart 
Loved  him,  and  strewed  fresh  garlands  on  his  grave. 
And  at  this  parting  hour  should  truth  have  weight. 
Sorrow  is  most  forgiving,  and  to  be 
Made  humble  by  it,  is  true  nobleness. 
Forgiveness  is  true  happiness,  and  he 
Is  happiest  most  who  shall  the  most  forgive. 
And  happiness  is  holiness,  for  he 
Can  only  holy  be  whose  heart  is  love. 
So  live — and  trust  me,  a  long  life  is  yours ! 
So  live — and  ye  shall  proudly  walk  with  men ! 
The  great  man  with  you  shall  forget  his  greatness. 
The  good  shall  come  to  you  and  call  you  theirs, 
And  she — to  whom  man's  slavery  is  no  sin — 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    NATURE.  55 

Why  even  she  shall  lay  aside  her  pride, 

And  come  to  you,  and  tell  ye  of  her  love. 

And  when  that  last,  dread  parting  hour  comes  on, 

And  the  bright  sky,  and  the  bright  world  around, 

With  all  it  hath  of  beauty  and  of  sweetness, 

With  all  it  hath  of  poetry  and  life, 

With  all  it  hath  to  elevate,  and  purify, 

And  make  men's  natures  noble ;  when  all  these 

Fade  from  thy  vision,  and  thy  hold  on  life 

Is  frail  and  feeble — then  lift  up  thine  eye, 

And  where  the  star  of  Faith  hangs  in  the  heavens, 

Look !  and  go  hence,  rejoicing. 


10 


THE    VOICE   OF    TRUTH 

(BOOK  iv,  OF  THE  PASTIME.) 


"Truth  is  a  stern  preachy, 
Sterner  than  dreams ;  and  such  a  tale  is  hers 
As  dreaming  is  not  made  of." 

Page  15. 

"  Ha?c  ego  non  iigitem  1" 

Juvenal. 


POEM.(5> 


WHEN  daisies  die,  and  sweet  briars  strow  their  leaves 
All  sear'd  by  frost,  and  from  the  hazel  copse, 
No  longer,  or  but  faintly,  the  clear  note 
The  black-bird  shrills  swells  out,  and  through  the  woods, 
Eddying  the  few  last  autumn  leaves,  the  wind 
Comes  low  and  plaintive — from  my  dwelling's  door, 
How  sweet  to  seek  the  silence  and  the  shade, 
And  woo  the  spirit  of  the  solitudes ! 
Most  soothing  sweet  it  is,  in  these  calm  days — 
These  hours,  when  Nature,  like  a  widow'd  bride, 
Puts  on  her  mourning  weeds ;  for  all  about  us, 
Such  lessons  come  and  fall  upon  the  heart, 
As  will  not  be  forgotten — which  sink  deep, 
And  purify  it,  while  they  make  it  sad. 
These  spreading  fields,  how  lonely !     Whither  now, 
Have  gone  the  hues  they  wore  when  June  came  on, 
And  call'd  the  blue-bird  from  the  southern  sky  1 
Whither  the  swelling  buds — the  flowers  that  prank'd 
With  shapes  grotesque,  the  sunny  slope — the  snow- 
drop, 

Just  peeping  upward  from  its  tuft  of  leaves, 
In  maiden  modesty  ? — Whither  the  primrose  fair, 


60  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

Blushing  and  flaunting  in  the  summer  wind, 

As  proud  of  its  rich  beauty  ? — gone — all  gone. 

And  but  a  few  pale  stems,  and  wither' d  leaves, 

To  say  they  once  have  been.     'Tis  silence  all ! — 

As  if  the  wing  of  death  had  swept  the  scene ; 

Seal'd  up  the  thousand  avenues  of  life 

In  tree  and  shrub,  and  left  them  all  to  die. 

The  groves  are  voiceless.    Stripp'd  of  most  their  tresses, 

Their  tall  arms  pierce  up  in  the  smoky  sky — 

How  silently.     Yet  some  few  leaves  are  left, 

That,  soft  detach'd  by  the  low  rising  wind, 

Drop  from  their  slender  twigs,  and  sift  along 

The  forest  skirts,  or  o'er  the  forest  pool. 

In  those  dried  leaves,  the  tiny  brown-bird  still 

(The  last  one  of  the  year)  hops  sprightlily ; 

And  as  he  leaps  from  twig  to  twig,  a  chirp — 

A  lonely  one,  bespeaks  his  sympathy. 

In  the  pale  cowslip  nestles  no  longer  now, 

The  housing  bee ;  tired  of  his  task  he  leaves, 

And  in  the  wind  his  wing  is  heard  no  more. 

Adown  the  brook  bends  blacken'd  the  tall  lily, 

Its  cup  half  gone ;  and  the  remaining  half — 

Seen  'neath  the  water — gleams  up  like  a  gem 

From  out  its  resting  place ;  while  down  that  stream, 

A  weed,  a  bent  of  grass,  an  insect  dead, 

Hurried,  all  tell  the  same  and  sad'ning  tale — 

The  change  that  waits  on  man,  the  Judgment  bar, 

God,  and  that  dread  solemnity !     Thus  Nature, 

Inanimate  though  she  be,  reads  us  her  truths, — 

Truths  uncontaminate  by  mortal  touch, — 


THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH.  61 

Truths  flowing  out  from  ev'ry  voluble  change — 
God's  living  oracles,  sublime  as  pure ! 

Strange  thoughts  are  these,  for  one  who  would 

have  spurn'd, 

A  few  years  since,  as  fool,  or  something  worse, 
A  moral  preacher !    Strange,  the  heart  can  cast 
One  set  of  passions  out,  and  find  its  bliss 
In  others,  quite  oppos'd  as  are  the  poles, 
Or  good  and  evil !    Yet  such  things  are  true ; 
And  are  attested  by  the  accidents 
Of  ev'ry  hour.     We  are  not  stationary, — 
We're  ever  shifting,  and  yet  still  the  same. 
What  we  are  now,  we  know ;  to-morrow,  that 
Is  wisely  shut  from  us,  and  we  forewarn'd 
To  let  to-morrow  cater  for  itself; — 
A  maxim  thunder'd  from  ten  thousand  tongues, 
And  pour'd  into  as  many  thousand  ears, 
And  yet,  one  of  those  disagreeable 
And  strange  conceits,  o'er  which  we  do  prefer 
To  yawn,  and  make  the  heart  think  'twas  not  heard. 
Pleasing  consistency.     Yes,  a  few  years — 
And  all  our  purposes  forget  their  aims, 
And  go  from  us ;  then  others  take  their  place, 
And  we  become  new  creatures.     We  look  back, 
And  measure  what  we  would  have  been,  with  what 
We  now  are ;  and — lo  1  what  are  the  avails 
Of  lookbg  to  futurity,  and  striving 
T'  appropriate  its  duties  to  ourselves  ? 
What  will  be  will  be,  struggle  as  we  may, 


62  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

And  strive  to  thwart  the  purposes  of  Heaven. 
Each  one  shall  fill  his  place,  and  play  his  part 
In  the  great  drama ;  and  give  place  to  others, 
When  'tis  his  hour.     None  are  exempt  from  it ; 
And  'twere  as  well  t'  attempt  with  willow  withes, 
To  chain  the  waves ;  or  silence  their  loud  throats 
With  talking  to  them,  as  change  what  is  will'd. 
And  yet — who  in  this  busied  world  of  ours, 
Though  granted  this  great  truth  in  its  full  force, 
Acts  as  he  did  believe  it  ? — Not  a  soul ! 
All  strive  to  thwart  the  purposes  of  Heaven. 
All  strive  to  take  the  reins  out  of  God's  hands, 
And  make  the  office  that  he  deigns  to  fill, 
The  merest  sinecure — themselves  supreme. 

What  is  the  voice  of  history!    Alas, 
A  sad'ning  tale.     Man,  wearied  of  his  God, 
And  of  the  task  of  virtue,  turn'd  away 
From  the  bright  track  of  truth ;  and,  shrouding  up 
His  noble  capabilities,  laid  down 
Upon  a  bed  of  thorns.     His  innate  sense 
Of  beauty,  and  of  excellence,  no  longer 
Brought  into  the  dim  chambers  of  his  soul, 
The  lesson  of  the  universe.     His  mind 
Blinded  by  stern  transgression — all  its  powers 
Forgot  their  glorious  action ;  while  his  heart, 
Crusted  by  its  deep  miseries,  woke  not 
To  Nature's  teachings.     Hence  a  night  of  death 
Hung  o'er  the  nations,  with  but  here  and  there 
A  single  star,  to  shoot  its  silver  flame 


THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH.  63 

Athwart  the  gloom.     Look  out  upon  the  scene ! 
Sorrow,  and  suffering — griefs,  and  tears,  and  groans, 
The  prospect  gives.     Man,  lifted  into  power, 
Dared  use  that  power  to  crush  his  fellow  man, — 
As  if  he  were  unworthy  of  the  signet 
God  set  upon  his  heart     With  godlike  mind, 
To  measure  the  infinities  of  things, 
To  grapple  with  the  universe  of  thought — 
Sensations,  feelings,  and  the  mysteries 
Of  man's  abstruser  being — lo !  enchain'd 
By  lust  and  passion,  he  could  lend  that  mind 
To  cripple  Truth,  and  load  her  with  the  shackles 
Of  his  infirmities.     The  gifts  of  Heaven, 
Perverted  all,  became  the  extremest  curse 
Conflicting  with  humanity.     The  smiles 
Of  providence,  the  freedom  of  the  mind, 
Freedom  of  thought  and  action,  the  bright  blaze 
Of  intellectual  beauty,  the  pure  aim 
Of  winged  genius,  the  exhaustless  stores 
Of  universal  knowledge,  and  a  name 
For  other  ages ;  these  did  lift  his  heart 
With  a  stern  pride,  which  in  the  face  of  Heaven 
SmelPd  rank  as  death.     Ay !  self  curs'd,  blinded,  waste, 
To  his  own  good  averse — the  human  mind 
Then  shot  away  from  the  bright  track  of  truth, 
To  wander  on,  and  lose  itself  in  darkness. 
Justice,  this  first  great  attribute  of  Heaven, 
Did  seem  to  leave  the  world,  as  some  foul  place 
By  God  abhorred.     The  page  of  history 
Reads  us  a  lesson,  which  makes  virtue  weep, 

11 


64  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

And  fiends  and  bad  men  tremble.     Rise  and  fall 

Seem  nations'  epitaphs,  and  deep  injustice 

Their  general  moral  is.     The  record  seems 

More  like  a  record  of  things  done  in  hell, 

Than  in  this  world ;  a  catalogue  of  crime — 

Pastime  of  devils.     Men  have  tax'd  themselves 

To  murder  men.     The  object  of  each  mind 

Center'd  in  self ;  and  it  could  crush  a  world, 

To  gain  its  end.     How  was  it  in  the  day 

When  God  tore  off  the  concave  of  the  heavens, 

And  a  huge  ocean  thunder'd  round  the  globe  1 

Earth  was  all  crime — and  innocent  blood,  in  rivers, 

Swell'd  to  the  seas.     From  dens,  and  caves,  and  crags, 

Went  up  the  orphan's  cry ;  the  widow'd  heart 

Bled,  while  oppression  crush'd  it ;  and  old  age 

Was  made  a  mockery.     Men  had  forgot 

God  was  in  heaven — and  so  they  sought  to  make 

Gods  of  themselves ;  and  hence  wars,  fighting,  murders, 

Made  the  earth  foul.     The  steam  of  sacrifice 

Of  human  victims,  shut  the  stars  away, 

And  made  the  sun  afraid !  and,  wide  outspread, 

Night,  like  an  incubus,  sat  on  the  globe, 

And  all  was  horror.     O,  how  all  unlike 

To  the  world's  infancy !     It  was  a  hell, 

Made  by  transgression ;  and,  one  single  soul 

Finding  that  kept  his  truth — above  the  waves 

Fearless  Heaven  bore  him,  while  death  swept  the  rest. 

But  where  is  now  that  truth,  which  surer  views 
Of  God  and  truth  should  give  ?    And  where  the  heart 


THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH.  65 

Which  bleeds  for  human  suffering,  and  makes  man 

The  brother  of  his  brother  ?— Where  is  it? 

I  speak  not  now  of  tribes — or  lands,  o'er  which 

Hangs  the  dark  night  of  superstition  foul ; 

But  where  truth,  science,  art,  law,  human  love — 

Pour'd  through  appropriate  channels — should  send  out 

Their  thousand  streams,  to  save  and  bless  mankind. 

Has  Jesus  died  ?     Has  that  unspotted  lamb 

Lived,  loved,  wept,  prayed  ? — then,  lifted  like  a  star 

Before  assembled  worlds,  rent  off  the  veil, 

And  bade  the  living  Temple  to  appear  1 

Why  bleed  then  in  our  midst  so  many  hearts  ? 

Why  the  sharp  cry  of  sorrow,  and  the  tear 

Streaming  like  rain,  and  clasp'd  hands  rais'd,  and  prayers, 

As  if  Oppression's  hoof  had  trode  men  down  ? 

Sure,  I've  a  heart !  and  all  of  us  have  hearts ! 

We  love  our  country  with  a  mutual  love ! 

Why  then  these  spots  like  vices  on  our  name  ? 

Is  this  a  land  for  chains  ?     Look  out  upon't ! — 

Point  me  the  spot  where  lies  that  cursed  stain, 

And  I  will  go  and  wash  it  with  my  tears. 

Is  this  a  land  for  chains  ?     Why,  look  you  there — 

Those  proud  hills  in  the  clouds,  all  thunder  scarr'd — 

They'll  mock  at  you !     They  toss  their  pines  about, 

And  wag  their  fretted  tops  against  the  storm, 

And  thunder — freedom !    Hark !  you  there — the  ocean 

Stuns  the  loud  shore ;  what  says  it  ?   That  is  freedom ! 

And  hark,  again, — God  speaks  from  yon  black  cloud, 

And  that  is  freedom  too !     Our  hills,  and  dales ; 

Our  groves  rejoicing  in  the  sun ;  our  streams 


66  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

Laughing  among  the  valleys ;  birds,  winds,  airs — 
All  have  one  note  and  tone,  and  it  is — freedom ! 
Yet  there's  a  want  of  justice  in  the  land, 
Which  well  might  make  the  patriot's  heart  afraid. 
Men,  it  would  seem,  have  lost  their  consciences. 
They  make  their  wills  supply  the  place  of  law, 
And  this  they  hold  by  tenure  of  such  faith, 
That  open  wickedness  were  virtue  to  it, 
And  would  far  better  suit  the  public  weal. 
Lo !  the  poor  Indian,  hunted  from  his  hut, 
With  less  compunction  than  we  hunt  a  wolf, 
To  please  us,  and  make  room  for  our  enlarge. 
And  lo !  the  African — that  human  ox ! 
Crush'd  into  dust,  and  sweated  for  our  pride, 
As  if  our  hearts  were  dead,  or  hewn  from  stone, 
And  could  not  feel  as  man  should  feel  for  man. — 
Sins  black  as  hell !  and  branded  on  our  names 
So  deep,  that  twice  ten  thousand  centuries 
Of  virtue,  would  not  serve  to  sweep  them  off. 

Oh !  'tis  this  half -way  virtue,  which  pulls  down 
Distinctions,  twixt  true  dignity  and  crime ; 
'Tis  this  which  makes  corruption  the  ally 
Of  men  in  power,  else  honorable  deemed ; 
And  'tis  this  sweeps  all  honor  from  the  land, 
Gives  vice  a  name,  and  kills  prosperity. 
It  taints  the  very  atmosphere — the  winds 
Are  with  its  poisonous  exhalations  rank ; 
And,  as  the  evils  erst  on  Egypt  sent, 
Disseminating  woes,  diseases,  death. 


THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH.  67 

Beneath  the  sway  of  principles  so  mean, 

So  low,  so  beggarly — what  art  can  thrive  ? 

What  virtue  blossom  neath  so  foul  a  sky  1 

How  can  this  nation,  blasted  by  its  sins, 

Rise  to  that  altitude  it  fain  would  reach — 

First  as  a  land,  which  scorns  a  tyrants  grip, 

First  as  a  land,  which  will  not  be  subdued, 

First  as  a  land,  where  science,  and  the  arts, 

And  knowledge  universally  diffused, 

Combine  t'  unite  th'  inhabitants  in  bond 

Of  federal  union,  and  bear  back  the  tide 

Of  crimination  and  close-fisted  powers ; 

And  sweep  away  abuses,  hurrying  in 

Like  furious  billows  by  strong  winds  impell'd — 

Imps  of  the  vilest  passions  of  a  mob 

By  universal  suffrage  fierce  let  loose  1 

We  cannot,  for  we  have  not  honor  fort. 

The  best  of  modern  virtue  is  effeminate. 

The  modern  ear,  so  delicately  grown, 

Is  pain'd  to  hear  the  customs  of  the  Pilgrims 

Lauded — so  very  plebeian,  and  low — 

So  anti-polished,  viciously  precise. 

The  pious  of  the  present  day  are  grown 

Sticklers  for  office,  and  the  appalling  cry 

Of  '  Church  and  State'  is  thunder'd  on  the  wind ; 

Loud  roars  th5  opposing  party !  while  the  helm 

Of  government,  finds  not  a  trusty  hand, 

To  steer  her  from  the  quicksands  and  the  rocks. 

Our  trusty  senators  are  bribed,  to  keep 

Two  hearts — the  one  upon  a  garrulous  tongue, 


68  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

To  please  the  people — while  the  other  lies, 

Modestly  hidden,  till  occasion  calls ; 

Then,  as  an  insect  from  its  crysalis, 

Forth  steps  the  man,  a  demagogue  renewed. 

The  loud -throat  doctrine  of  '  expediency' 

Is  puff'd  abroad,  and  strikes  with  fearful  din 

The  ears  of  modest  men  ;  and  sober  law,(6) 

Long  purifying  in  the  crucible 

Of  modern  policy  and  French  finesse, 

Has  changed  its  nature  to  a  thing,  in  which 

We  recognize  no  portion  of  itself. 

6  It  is  not,  nor  it  cannot  come  to,  good.' 

From  such  a  state,  and  so  administer'd 
Its  power  legislative ;  by  men  of  such 
A  shallowness  of  virtue — what  but  ills, 
Confusion,  and  red  anarchy  can  spring  ? 
What  better  end  can  he,  who  swallows  down 
The  hugest  of  Hope's  soporif  rous  draughts, 
Premise  1  or  he  who  at  the  sober  bar 
Of  common  sense  stands  longest,  but  hears  least  ? 
The  wisest  mind — it  cannot,  if  it  would, 
An  unction  find  to  suit  our  sad  estate. 
'Tis  seeking  flowers  where  they  can  never  grow — 
Fresh  roses  on  the  solitary  rock ; 
The  soil  is  rank  and  weedy,  and  they  droop 
Sickly  awhile,  and  perish  premature. 
As  well  the  tall  ash,  by  the  thunder's  stroke 
Fired  to  its  center,  and  of  foliage  stript, 
Might  hope  to  bud  again,  when  in  its  roots 


THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH.  69 

Sapless  and  dying,  breeds  the  spiral  worm. 

— When  dead  to  virtue,  and  each  nobler  good, 

And  our  vile  natures  gain  ascendency, 

Man's  course  is  downward.     Give  the  passions  play, 

And  they  exact  reward  for  the  permit — 

Forsooth,  a  wider  sweep ;  and,  tyrannous, 

And  stronger  grown,  they  take  it  as  they  list. 

And  such  methinks  will  be  this  nation's  fate. 

Yea !  justice,  though  delayed,  will  come  at  last, 

And  downward  hurl  us  like  an  avalanche, 

To  death  inevitable ;  for  we  have  sins — 

Sins  that  call  long  and  loudly  for  redress — 

And  we  dare  look  at  them,  and  tremble  not. 

Oh !  we  seem  bound  to  death.     No  patriot,(7) 
Whose  bosom  owns  a  patriot's  sympathies, 
Can  cast  his  eye  across  this  mighty  land, 
See  murders  here,  and  disaffection  there, 
And  hear  the  rabble  yelling  in  his  ears, 
Their  wants  and  wills ;  but  trembles,  lest  this  proud, 
And  most  magnificent  temple — Freedom's  home ! 
Rear'd  by  the  might,  and  solder'd  by  the  blood 
Of  our  great  fathers,  has  outlived  its  own ; 
And  now  must  be  laid  prostrate,  by  the  force 
Of  civil  faction,  and  inveterate  war. 
What  need  the  people  which  they  do  not  have, 
Despite  of  wisdom,  policy,  or  right  ? 
Laws  are  annul'd,  and  new  ones  fangled  up, 
To  suit  themselves.     Treaties  are  thrown  aside — 
Treaties  which  our  great  ancestry,  convened 


70  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

In  solemn  council,  swore  should  be  esteem'd 
In  years  to  come.     They  dare  to  abrogate, 
And  strip  the  highest  offices  of  power — 
Making  their  own  reprisals ;  give  the  wise, 
Stations,  the  veriest  sinecures ;  and  thus, 
The  fool  equipp'd,  to  suit  him  with  a  cap — 
A  cap  and  bells — they  dare  to  cry  aloud 
6  Oppression  !'  and  scold  furious  for  their  rights. 
See  here  and  there,  a  great  man  stoop  himself, 
And  cringe,  and  smirk,  and  emulate  an  ape, 
To  win  his  way  to  patronage,  and  grasp 
Emoluments,  and  duties  of  high  trust. 
He  dares  to  damn  himself  and  bribe  a  state, 
With  less  compunction  than  he  kills  a  gnat 
That  vexes  him ;  and  he  can  fat  himself 
Upon  the  people ;  and,  confess'd  their  friend, 
Can  ride  upon  their  necks  just  where  he  please- 
They,  mean  while,  so  elated  with  the  load 
They  carry,  that  they  amble  with  delight, 
And  bray  their  satisfaction.     This  is  foul ! 
And  this  is  sinful  in  the  eye  of  Heaven, 
And  calls  for  remedy.     Whence  it  shall  come, 
Or  what  the  means,  is  only  known  to  Him, 
Who  can  build  up,  and  can  cast  down  at  will ; 
But  since  as  we  deserve,  so  shall  we  mourn, 
My  countrymen !  oh,  let  us  kiss  the  dust, 
And  put  on  sackcloth — for  our  sins  are  great. 

Alas !  for  Africa,  ill-fated  land,(8) 
Sweating  and  groaning  neath  a  mountain  curse, 


THE    VOICE     OF    TRUTH.  71 

And  by  ourselves  imposed — alas !  for  thee. 
Alas,  for  thee,  insulted,  injured  race, 
Thy  skin  thine  only  crime,  for  which  thou  mak'st 
A  horrid  expiation — sighs,  and  tears, 
Groans,  and  deep  seated  woe.     Alas !  for  thee. 
I  know  not  but  I  prate ;  but,  to  my  mind, 
Some  awful  scourge,  and  from  Jehovah's  hand, 
Shall  rouse  this  nation  from  her  lethargy, 
And  write  her  doom.     Shall  strip  off  her  disguise — 
The  which  she  has  so  speciously  assumed ; 
And  hold  her  up  in  attitude  so  mean, 
So  vile,  so  damn'd — the  world  shall  hiss  at  her ; 
And  to  be  known  her  citizen,  were  but 
To  be  afflicted  with  some  leprous  itch ; 
To  be  shut  out  from  sympathy,  and  held 
Accurs'd  of  all  mankind.     The  ancient  world 
Was  suffer'd  to  fill  up  her  cup  of  guilt, 
The  surer  to  be  damn'd.     The  man  of  God 
Lifted  his  staff;  and,  instant  at  the  word, 
Nilus  became  a  stagnant  pool — the  lakes, 
And  rivers,  gender'd  monsters  most  obscene—- 
And, from  the  quarters  of  the  heavens,  came 
The  winds — and  on  their  mighty  wings  outspread, 
Locusts  in  armies  came.     The  whole  land  stank — 
When  rotted  in  the  eye  of  the  hot  sun — 
Wither'd  was  every  herb,  and  famine  came 
To  do  its  ministry.     And  in  the  wilderness, 
When  murmur'd  loud  the  unregenerate  Jews, 
And  made  them  idols — plagues,  diseases,  snakes, 
And  wing'd  with  lightning,  God  sent  down  to  them, 

12 


72  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

And  cut  them  off.     The  cities  of  the  plain — 

How  were  they  crush'd !     The  heavens  roll'd  away ; 

And  took  their  place,  a  sky  of  liquid  fire ; 

And,  driven  by  tempests,  fell  a  firey  storm 

Of  blistering  fury,  and  terrific  death, 

Destroying  all.     And  when,  more  modern,  dared 

The  lecherous  Charles,  of  Britain's  history,(9) 

To  brave  his  suffering  God ;  then,  at  one  stroke, 

Such  as  a  God  could  deal,  that  whole  land  wail'd, 

Crush'd  to  its  heart !  and  o'er  it,  one  vast  cloud — 

One  infinite  cloud  of  terror,  strength,  and  shame — 

Brooded,  and  men  in  thousands  day  by  day 

Dropp'd  into  hell.     Yet  these  were  innocent, 

Compared  with  us !    They  should  have  given  their  faith 

To  the  great  God — a  being  scarce  revealed, 

Save  by  the  light  within.     And  if  he  smote, 

Thus  high  and  low,  the  ancient  cities,  those 

Less  favor'd  with  the  gift  of  prophecy ; 

What  fate  is  ours — the  Bible  in  our  hands? 

The  will  of  the  Incomprehensible, 

And  known  as  such  ?     Upon  his  soveran  justice, 

Such  guilt  as  ours — how  awrful  its  demands  ? 

It  cannot  be,  that  God  design'd  one  half 
Of  this  huge  world  should  lord  it  o'er  the  rest ; 
That  one  half  should  be  furnish'd  with  a  whip 
To  goad  the  other,  till  the  gift  of  life — 
Heaven's  sweetest  gift — be  changed  into  a  curse ! 
It  cannot  be,  that  difference  of  hue, 
Or  shape  of  limb,  or  difference  organic 


THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH.  73 

Of  brain,  if  such  a  difference  there  be — 

Gives  me  the  title  to  command  '  to  task,' 

Men  human  every  passion,  and  exact 

Their  sweat  to  feed  and  pamper  my  delights ! 

'  Oh,  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 

Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade !' 

So  sang  the  poet  as  none  else  have  sung, 

Whose  eye  was  pain'd  with  the  same  view  of  things 

Which  paineth  me.     His  heart  was  sick  with  grief; 

And  his  compassion,  kindled  into  flame, 

It  made  the  poet's  harmony  more  sweet. 

And  for  myself — methinks  it  were  far  better, 

To  drag  out  life  in  some  deep  dungeon  cave, 

Where  the  wave  thunders  and  the  loud  winds  war ; 

Or  sleep  beneath  the  canopy  of  heaven, 

On  some  far  jut  of  isolated  land ; 

Than  here,  surrounded  by  the  arts  of  life, 

And  its  dependencies ;  live  where  the  laws — 

The  first  great  law  that's  written  on  the  heart — 

Is  disregarded  every  flying  hour. 

Oh !  I  would  sooner  beg  from  door  to  door ! 

Ay !  I  would  sooner  starve  on  the  high  way, 

And  go  to  Heaven  a  pauper — than  borne  there, 

From  beds  of  softness  and  luxurious  ease, 

The  product  of  my  slaves !     Yet  justice  lives, 

And  sin,  though  God  permit  it  for  wise  ends, 

He  will  not  sanction  it.     Who  plays  with  death, 

Will  find  his  pleasure  is  at  such  a  risk, 

As  Wisdom  scorns  to  run.     Who  madly  sports 

Upon  a  precipice,  and  thinks  it  safe  1 


74  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

Or  who  plays  with  the  deadly  basilisk, 

And  is  not  bitten  ?     God  hath  so  advised, 

And  set  in  train  his  secret  agencies, 

In  this,  his  world ;  that,  when  his  creatures  fool, 

And  set  their  own  against  his  righteous  will, 

They  strike  a  spring,  disguised  from  mortal  sight, 

Which  worketh  an  infallible  result, 

And  that  is — vengeance  !     Can  this  nation  chain 

Three  million  wretched  beings,  bone  and  blood, 

Though  aliens  to  the  soil — and  feel  they  do 

Exact  such  lengths  at  no  important  risk  ? 

Sleeps  she  not  o'er  a  subterraneous  mine, 

Which  some  slight  circumstance,  beyond  her  ken, 

Shall  spring,  and  shake  her  pillars  to  their  fall  ? 

We  boast  us  free !  and  we  extend  that  right, 

Free  and  unqualified,  to  every  man ! — 

None  are  exempt  save  such  as  stock  our  jails. 

Talk  we  of  freedom  ?  blush,  America ! 

Blush  at  the  thought,  and  give  it  tongue  no  more ! 

Or  if  thou  dost — think  of  that  abject  race, 

Chain'd  to  the  earth  as  if  a  part  of  it, 

And  sold  as  common  cattle  in  our  midst ! 

I  tremble  for  my  country,  and  her  laws, 
And  her  prosperity,  which  to  my  heart 
Is  dearer  than  mine  own — while  her  great  guilt, 
Now  like  an  incubus  that  threats  to  crush  her, 
Is  still  increasing.     Slavery's  a  disease, 
A  cancer — which  ye  cannot  scarify, 
And  medicine  to  its  cure.     The  lance  must  needs 


THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH.  75 

Go  deep  beneath  the  surface,  and  the  whole 

Must  be  torn  forth ;  or  it  is  best  to  let 

The  poison  work,  until  the  patient  die. 

The  nation  is  afflicted  with  this  pest — 

This  cancer ;  and  though  still  its  ravages 

Molest  a  portion  only — yet,  insidious, 

It  winds  itself  through  the  whole  life  and  frame, 

And  threats  to  grow  upon  the  very  heart. 

One  effort  then  is  needed,  to  effect 

Complete  emancipation  ! — One  united, 

And  vigorous  effort,  by  the  nation  made, 

Will  save  us ! — Else  we  linger  to  our  death, 

And  perish  like  sick  idiots,  who  knew 

The  way  to  safety,  and  neglected  it. 

There  is,  and  nourish'd  in  each  human  breast, 
Although  the  heart  be  ignorant  of  the  same, 
An  innate  thirst  for  liberty,  a  spark 
Which  God  implanted ;  and,  though  moral  night, 
And  mental  slavery,  hold  terrific  sway, 
It  can  be  fann'd  into  a  flame.     Ye  masters ! 
Think  ye,  that  mid  those  crowds  ye  whip  along, 
As  destitute  of  all  the  faculties, 
Exalted  feelings,  and  high  grasping  thoughts, 
That  make  the  man, — those  crowds  ye  auctioneer 
As  cattle,  and  e'en  by  the  chair  of  state, — 
Ay !  so  contiguous  to  the  sacred  halls 
Of  legislation,  that  the  learned  Judge, 
If  he  but  list,  may  hear  the  hammer  fall, — 
And  hear  the  bargain'd  wretch  shriek,  as  his  heart 


76  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

Is  broken,  and  his  misery  complete  ; — 

Think  ye,  that  mid  those  crowds,  some  circumstance 

Shall  never  fire  the  spark  of  liberty, 

And  to  your  downfall  ?     Oh,  that  time  will  come, 

And  Justice  takes  the  whip  in  her  own  hands, — 

When  there  will  be  a  horrid  expiation ! 

I  thank  my  God,  that  he  has  cast  my  lot, 

Where  lash  of  slavery  is  never  heard, 

To  pain  the  ear,  and  quiver  through  the  heart ! 

That  the  warm  blush  of  honorable  shame, 

Shame  for  our  country,  mantles  on  our  cheeks, 

E'en  at  the  name !     That  pity  here  distills 

The  tears,  as  pure  as  those  which  angels  weep 

At  human  sin — which  fall  upon  the  wounds 

Of  the  poor  slave,  at  mention  of  his  wrongs ! 

It  staggers  Faith,  to  see  the  wickedness 
Which  God  permits  in  this  huge  suffering  world. 
Six  thousand  years  have  roll'd  into  the  past, 
And  on  the  lapse,  how  great  the  aggregate 
Of  human  guilt !  how  awful  the  amount 
Of  human  wretchedness  !     The  most  refin'd, 
And  exquisite  modes  of  torture  and  distress, 
Has  sin  devised.     Art  has  paid  contribution. 
Invention  has  been  charter'd ;  talents,  wit ; 
And  sacred  Genius  has  stoop'd  from  its  height, 
To  spread  destruction  o'er  the  subject  world. 
Virtue,  the  only  plant  in  the  wide  waste, 
And  that  so  sickly  and  so  desolate 
Ofttimes,  that  total  midnight  sat  around. 


THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH.  77 

Light  has  sprung  up  and  sunk  again.     Religion 
Has  flourish'd  here,  then  pass'd  to  other  lands ; 
Glanc'd  o'er  this  sea  and  that ;  from  clime  to  clime 
A  wanderer ;  as  houseless  as  the  winds, 
Or  waves  that  hurry  through  the  polar  seas. 
Who  dared  be  pious,  must  seek  out  some  den, 
Or  cavern,  mid  the  multitude  of  hills ; 
And  praise  his  God,  where  nothing  shelter' d  him, 
Save  rocks,  or  forest  trees ;  and  not  a  sound 
Cheer' d  him,  save  where  the  greedy  cormorant 
Scream'd  o'er  her  food — the  carcass  of  dead  wolf, 
Or  goat,  or  Iammergeyer(l0)  upon  the  cliffs. 
Tyrants  are  tyrants  for  the  love  of  it. 
Men  scoff  at  goodness  when  't  would  make  them  blest, 
And  turn  to  hell,  e'en  from  the  gate  of  Heaven. 
Men  eat  each  other.     Not  when  famine  threats ; 
But  when  the  earth  is  plenty  crown'd,  and  Peace 
Would,  if  she  might,  sit  down  at  ev'ry  door. 
Tigers  and  wolves  prey  not  upon  their  kind. 
Or  if  they  do,  from  *  hunger's  sharp  constraint,' 
They  spare  their  young.  Yet  man,  more  fell  than  they, 
Preys  on  the  fruit  of  his  own  flesh,  and  dares 
To  do  it,  in  despite  of  God  and  Heaven ! 

The  time  will  come,  when  God  shall  make  this  earth 
Feel  that  he  reigns.     When  all  his  childrens'  cries — 
Their  groans  and  martyrdoms,  shall  be  avenged, 
And  dreadfully  too  !     Hell's  king  shall  not  survive — 
Nor  his  foul  machinations  make  this  world, 
Longer,  a  mournful  wilderness  of  tombs  ! 


78  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

He  will  avenge  them,  for  himself  hath  sworn. 
And  shall  God  swear,  and  will  he  not  perform  ? 
Tremble !  ye  monarchs  of  that  gloomy  land, 
Where  shadows,  doubts,  and  superstition  reign ! 
Tremble !  ye  pandering  ministers  of  vice — 
Professing  godliness,  yet  having  not 
The  shadow  of  its  power !     Ye  tyrants,  tremble ! — 
Ye  bloody  butchers  of  th'  unrighteous  Alps ! 
Tremble  !  thou  gorey  Piedmont — for  the  blood, 
The  righteous  blood  of  martyrs,  from  thy  rocks, 
Calls  unto  Heaven  for  vengeance !     It  shall  come  ! 
And  thou,  in  blackest  darkness,  shalt  howl  forth 
Useless  defiance  to  the  King  of  kings ! 
— The  morn  was  beautiful  !(11)     The  rising  sun 
Glanc'd  from  the  glaciers  with  a  thousand  beams ; 
The  torrents  foam'd  not,  fraught  with  ruin  dire  ; 
The  avalanche  went  harmless  in  its  plunge ; 
And  Nature,  as  one  universal  soul, 
Sent  up  its  praises !     An  afflicted  flock 
Had  gathered  at  their  wonted  place  of  prayer, 
And  praise ;  their  souls  absolved  and  inly  soared 
Beyond  the  empyrean — lo !  a  band  of  wolves, 
Fiends  chang'd  in  shape,  most  bloody  Piedmontese ! 
With  shout  and  yell,  rush  to  their  massacre. 
Hark  !  the  loud  wail,  the  prayer,  the  stifled  shriek  ! 
Hark  !  the  hoarse  curse  of  ruffian  soldiery ! 
Old  men  and  maids,  the  wan  and  sick  with  years, 
The  man  secure  in  plenitude  of  strength, 
The  matron  too,  e'en  bright  and  tearless  youth, 
And  babes  untaught  to  lisp  a  mother's  name — 


THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH.  79 

Dash'd  from  the  precipice  ! — their  mangled  limbs 

Scatter' d  upon  the  naked  crags,  and  left 

To  glut  the  vulture  !     Murderous,  murderous  sport ! — 

Murder  most  foul  and  damnable ! — Pastime 

Of  marble  hearts,  of  God  and  Heaven  disown'd  ! 

It  shall  not  'scape  the  vigilance  of  th'  Eternal. 

He  will  not  sleep,  when  murder  is  afoot, 

And  when  his  children  cry.     Hath  he  not  sworn  ? 

Charter'd  his  honor  to  support  his  own  ? 

His  tender  lambs  1 — to  lead,  to  guide  them  safe, 

And  lodge  them  safely  in  his  fold  at  last  ? 

He  will  accomplish ;  and  the  time  will  come, 

When  earth  shall  dreadfully  disgorge  her  guilt, 

And  whelm  the  nations  in  one  common  ruin ! 

And  yet,  amid  the  darkness,  rises  Hope — 
Sweet  phantom !  which  the  most  unseemly  wretch 
E'en  on  the  grave's  brink  grasps,  and  is  revived ; 
And  let  us  lay  thee  closely  to  our  hearts, 
And  fling  away  despair.     There  is  a  principle 
Hidden,  yet  not  less  vigorous,  which  doth 
Pervade  the  whole  wide  world ;  until  the  last 
Of  all  those  cords  which  ring  in  virtue's  soul, 
Are  broken,  and  their  music  tones  forgot. 
It  is  that  natural  dignity  in  man, 
Which  makes  him  shrink  to  fall  beneath  himself; 
Which,  though  his  nature,  and  his  habit  (worse 
Than  nature  in  its  exercise)  conjoin'd, 
Have  thrust  him  far  down  from  his  native  height, 
And  soil'd  his  bright  original ;  yet  then, 

13 


80  THE    VOICE    OF    TRUTH. 

Will  rouse  his  spirit  to  its  native  worth, 
Force  him  to  shake  the  loathsome  fetters  off, 
And  walk  to  all  the  excellence  of  virtue. 
So  the  proud  eagle — Jove's  imperial  bird ! 
Hurl'd  from  the  stars  its  dwelling,  and  constraint 
To  moil  awhile  in  uncongenial  dust, 
Hears  loud  within,  the  voice  of  its  first  nature, 
Calling  it  up,  and,  startling  at  the  sound, 
Outvies  the  storm  again,  and  cleaves  the  clouds ! 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES 


CENTENNIAL  HYMN. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIMS  AT 
NEW  HAVEN,  AND  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  SUNG  ON  THE  SPOT  WHERE  THEY 
HELD  THEIR  FIRST  SABBATH  WORSHIP. 

HERE  then,  beneath  the  green-wood  shade, 

The  pilgrim  first  his  altar  made ! 

'T  was  here,  amid  the  mingled  throng, 

First  breathed  the  prayer,  and  woke  the  song ! 

The  same  low  sounds  are  in  our  ears, 
Which  echoed  in  those  early  years ; 
'T  was  this  same  wave,  with  gentle  reach, 
Came  rippling  up  the  shingled  beach. 

The  sun  which  lends  its  gladness  now, 
Lay  bright  upon  the  pilgrim's  brow ; 
And  this  same  wind,  here  breathing  free, 
Curled  round  his  honor'd  head  in  glee. 

How  peaceful  smiled  that  Sabbath  sun ! 
How  holy  was  that  day  begun ! — 
When  here,  amid  the  dark  woods  dim, 
Went  up  the  pilgrim's  first  low  hymn ! 


84  CENTENNIAL    HYMN. 

Hush'd  was  the  stormy  forest's  roar, 
The  forest  eagle  scream'd  no  more ; 
And  far  along  the  blue  wave's  side, 
The  billow  murmur'd  where  it  died. 

The  young  bird  cradled  by  its  nest, 
Its  matin  symphony  repress'd  ; 
And  nothing  broke  the  stillness  there, 
Save  the  low  hymn,  or  humbler  prayer. 

The  red  man,  as  the  blue  wave  broke 
Before  his  dipping  paddle's  stroke, 
Paused,  and  hung  list'ning  on  his  oar, 
As  the  hymn  came  from  off  the  shore. 

Look  now  upon  the  same  still  scene ! 
The  wave  is  blue,  the  turf  is  green ; 
But  where  are  now  the  wood,  and  wild — 
The  pilgrim,  and  the  forest  child  ? 

The  wood  and  wild  have  pass'd  away ; 
Pilgrim  and  forest  child  are  clay ; 
And  here,  upon  their  graves,  we  stand, 
The  children  of  that  Christian  band ! 

And  lo !  our  goodly  heritage — 

A  busy  scene,  a  prosperous  age ; 

Here  Commerce  spreads  her  whited  wings,(12) 

And  Art,  amid  her  labor,  sings. 


CENTENNIAL    HYMN.  85 

Far  as  the  spreading  gaze  is  given — 
A  fruitful  soil,  a  glowing  heaven ! 
Contentment  all  the  valley  fills, 
While  Peace  is  piping  from  the  hills. 

And  here,  where  hearth  nor  home  might  bless, 
Once,  in  the  woody  wilderness ; 
Young  Love,  like  Spring,  now  decks  the  year, 
And  Sharon's  sweetest  rose  is  here. 

Soft  voices  wake  the  streets  all  day, 
And  smiling  looks,  and  hearts  as  gay ; 
And  sweeter  than  the  breath  of  birds, 
Childhood's  light  laugh,  and  half-lisp'd  words. 

Law,  Justice,  Love,  here  meet  as  one, 
Here  Art  and  Science  hail  their  son  ;(13) 
Here  Faith  secures  her  sacrifice, 
And  Hope  stands  gazing  on  the  skies. 

Then  while  upon  this  spot  we  stand, 
The  children  of  that  Christian  band ; 
Be  ours  the  thmights  we  owe  this  day, 
To  our  great  fathers  pass'd  away ! 

By  prayer  and  contemplation  led, 
Be  ours  by  their  brave  spirits  fed ! 
Be  ours  their  efforts  and  their  aim — 
Their  truth,  their  glory,  and  their  name ! 


86 


A  FOREST  NOON-SCENE. 


NOON  in  the  sky.     The  burning  sun  pours  down 
With  an  oppressive  fullness,  the  bright  leaves 
Hang  languidly  in  the  shade,  the  fresh  green  herbs 
Roll  up  their  long  and  taper  stems  as  parch'd 
By  the  hot  influence,  the  small  wood  birds 
Have  quit  the  open  country  and  gone  out 
Into  the  innermost  darkness  of  the  groves, 
For  shelter  from  the  blaze ;  while  over  all 
The  scene  the  eye  takes  in,  of  fields  and  fells, 
Of  swelling  hills  and  long  drawn  vales  between, 
Of  verdure-rolling  plain  and  flashing  waves, 
And  meadows  veined  by  rivulets,  comes  up 
A  faint  and  flickering  steam  through  all  the  air, 
Baked  by  the  hot  sun  from  the  dusty  plain. 

Noon  in  the  sky.     And  I  have  come  out  here 
To  breathe  awhile  the  air  of  the  cool  wood. 
To  go  into  the  caverns  of  the  rocks, 
To  climb  out  on  the  ridges  of  the  hills, 
And  drink  in,  in  the  gladness  of  my  thought, 
The  voices  of  the  birds  in  the  green  boughs, 
The  voices  of  the  winds  in  their  green  tops — 
And  offer,  in  my  purity  of  heart, 
To  Nature,  one  sweet  hymn  of  gratitude. 


A    FOREST    NOON-SCENE.  87 

This  is  indeed  a  sacred  solitude, 
And  beautiful  as  sacred.     Here  no  sound, 
Save  such  as  breathes  a  soft  tranquility, 
Falls  on  the  ear ;  and  all  around,  the  eye 
Meets  nought  but  hath  a  moral.     These  deep  shades, 
With  here  and  there  an  upright  trunk  of  ash, 
Or  beech,  or  nut,  whose  branches  interlaced 
O'ercanopy  us,  and,  shutting  out  the  day, 
A  twilight  make — they  press  upon  the  heart 
With  force  amazing  and  unutterable. 
These  trunks  enormous,  from  the  mountain  side 
Ripp'd  roots  and  all  by  whirlwinds ;  those  vast  pines 
Athwart  the  ravine's  melancholy  gloom 
Transversely  cast ;  these  monarchs  of  the  wood — 
Dark,  gnarl'd,  centennial  oaks,  that  throw  their  arms 
So  proudly  up ;  those  monstrous  ribs  of  rock, 
That,  shiver'd  by  the  thunder-stroke,  and  hurl'd 
From  yonder  cliff,  their  bed  for  centuries, 
Here  crushed  and  wedged ;  all  by  their  massiveness, 
And  silent  strength,  impress  us  with  a  sense 
Of  Deity.     And  here  are  wanted  not 
More  delicate  forms  of  beauty.     Numerous  tribes 
Of  natural  flowers  do  blossom  in  these  shades, 
Meet  for  the  scene  alone.     At  ev'ry  step, 
Some  beauteous  combination  of  soft  hues, 
Less  brilliant  though  than  those  that  deck  the  field, 
The  eye  attracts.     Mosses  of  softest  green 
Creep  round  the  trunks  of  the  decayed  trees, 
And  mosses,  hueless  as  the  mountain  snow, 
Inlay  the  turf.     Here,  softly  peeping  forth, 

14 


88  A    FOREST    NOON-SCENE. 

The  eye  detects  the  little  violet, 

Such  as  the  city  boasts — of  paler  hue, 

Yet  fragrant  more.     The  simple  forest  flower, 

And  that  pied  gem,  the  wind  flower,  sweetly  named, 

Here  greet  the  cautious  search ;  while,  bending  down 

Right  o'er  the  forest  walk,  the  wild  syringa 

Displays  its  long  and  tufted  flower,  and  swings 

In  the  soft  breeze.     And  their  soft  delicate  forms, 

And  breath  of  perfume,  send  th'  unwilling  heart, 

And  all  its  aspirations,  to  the  source 

Of  light  and  life.     Nor  woodland  sounds  are  wanting, 

Such  as  the  mind  to  that  soft  melancholy 

The  poet  feels,  lull  soothingly.     The  winds 

Are  playing  with  the  forest  tops  in  glee, 

And  music  make.     Sweet  rivulets 

Slip  here  and  there  from  out  the  crevices 

Of  rifted  rocks,  and,  welling  'mid  the  roots 

Of  prostrate  trees,  or  blocks  transversely  cast, 

Form  jets  of  driven  snow.     The  housing  bee — 

The  plunderer  of  the  uplands — has  come  out 

Into  these  cooler  haunts,  and  sweetly  fills 

The  void  air  with  his  murmurings.     Soft  symphonies 

Of  birds  unseen,  on  every  side  swell  out, 

As  if  the  spirit  of  the  wood  complained, 

Harmonious  and  most  prodigal  of  sound ; 

And  these  can  woo  the  spirit  with  such  power, 

And  tune  it  to  a  mood  so  exquisite, 

That  the  enthusiast  heart  forgets  the  world, 

Its  strifes  and  follies,  and  seeks  only  here 

To  satisfy  its  thirst  for  happiness. 


A    FOREST    NOON-SCENE.  89 

To  shades  and  solitudes,  have  poets  ever 
Turn'd  for  instruction ;  and  in  these  soft  forms 
Of  ever- vary  ing  beauty,  and  the  sounds 
Of  natural  harmony,  have  traced  resemblances 
To  man's  abstruser  being,  and  drawn  thence 
Maxims  of  wisdom.     Hence,  the  fanciful 
And  beautiful  superstition  of  the  world, 
In  other  ages.     Founts  that  the  shepherd's  lip 
Cooled,  made  him  thankful,  and  the  spring  became 
A  benefactress.     Music  in  the  hills, 
Made  him  associate  some  captive  god 
With  music  there.     The  reeds  that  in  the  stream 
Sighed  to  the  voluble  breathing  of  the  wind, 
Shaped  out  a  nymph,  that,  henceforth,  with  bright  locks 
Guarded  its  waters.     Hence,  the  orgies, 
And  rites  Druidical,  in  solemn  groves 
Of  early  Britain  ;  for  the  very  airs, 
From  rock,  or  steep,  or  gloomy  solitude, 
Or  mount,  or  cave,  breathed  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  an  awe  and  majesty, 
He  felt  must  come  from  God.     Then,  since  these  groves 
Are  held  the  residence  of  spiritual 
And  breathing  essences,  let  me  here  feel 
The  beauty  that  there  is  in  the  calm  shade, 
The  wisdom  too ;  and,  while  from  every  thing 
Goes  up  a  silent  worship  into  Heaven, 
Rapt  be  the  poet  with  the  theme  he  sings, 
And,  gathering  thence  his  strength,  be  better  fitted 
To  follow  out  life's  daily  charities, 
And  tread  the  way  rejoicing. 


90 


THE   MERRY   HEART. 


If  I  could  ask  one  boon  of  Heaven 

In  this  same  world  of  ours, 
With  which  there  seems  to  me  is  given 

The  most  of  this  world's  flowers, 
It  is  that  this  one  thing  might  be 

Of  my  soul's  self  a  part, 
And  be  with  me,  and  stay  with  me — 

A  merry,  merry  heart. 

I've  seen  so  much  of  care  and  grief, 

I've  heard  so  much  of  ill ; 
I've  seen  so  many  seek  relief 

From  things  that  only  kill ; 
That  I  have  learned  to  think  this  best 

Of  all  our  friends  below, 
To  breathe  a  Sabbath  through  the  breast 

That's  burden'd  down  with  wo. 

It  makes  the  bright  sky  look  more  bright, 

It  gives  the  earth  a  charm ; 
It  follows  round  the  orbs  of  night, 

And  keeps  our  sleep  from  harm ; 
It  gives  the  wild  bird's  sweetest  note, 


THE    MERRY    HEART.  91 

The  wind's  when  it  complains ; 
And  round  us  with  it  seem  to  float 
A  thousand  joyous  strains ! 

What  if  the  world  looks  cold  and  drear, 

And  comes  a  cloudy  day  ? 
Why,  we've  a  little  smiler  here, 

To  laugh  it  all  away ; 
There  is  a  bounding  spirit  in't 

So  free  from  ev'ry  care, 
'T  would  give  the  darkest  spot  a  tint, 

And  set  some  beauty  there. 

And  if  some  heart — on  which  our  own 

Had  leant,  and  trusted  ever — 
Should  leave  us  in  the  world  alone, 

Or  turn  out,  a  deceiver ; 
Why,  here's  the  friend  still  faithfully 

Keeping  its  trust  within, 
To  wipe  the  tear  drop  from  the  eye, 

And  pardon  all  the  sin. 

And  when  the  last  fell  hand  should  come 

To  snap  life's  strings  away ; 
And  leave  us  but  <  man's  last  low  home,' 

His  coffin  and  his  clay ; 
Methinks  upon  our  graves  should  spring, 

And  never  thence  depart, 
Some  emblem  of  that  blessed  thing — 

A  merry,  merry  heart. 


92 


THE  CHEERFUL   INVALID. 


MANY  there  be  who  in  this  changeful  world 
Of  sunshine  and  of  storm  go  smoothly  on, 
And  dream  of  nought  but  their  own  happiness ; 
And  many  be  there  (by  affliction  chasten'd 
Into  a  sterner  wisdom)  who  believe, 
The  world  is  wedded  unto  misery. 
Now  neither  of  these  lessons  is  the  just  one. 
Man's  lot  is  not  an  even  one,  'tis  true ; 
Nor  can  he  choose  his  blessings ;  yet  there  is 
Much  to  make  glad  his  spirit,  and  this  gladness 
Is  freely  offered  him.     A  man  must  take 
Joys  as  they  come,  and  sorrows  as  they  come ; 
And  making  one  the  offset  of  the  other, 
Bless  him  who  blesses  all.     He  will  not  find, 
That  all  is  truth  the  moody  moralist 
Rings  in  his  ears ;  nor  will  he  find  that  joy, 
Deck'd  as  it  is  with  sunbeams,  is  without 
Something  to  give  him  pain.     The  ills  of  life 
Are  mingled  with  the  good ;  and  he  is  wise, 
Who  takes  them  as  they  come,  and  can  be  still. 

Sickness  had  long  been  mine,  and  I  had  groan'd 
Long  with  a  sick  man's  sorrows.     I  had  sat, 


THE    CHEERFUL    INVALID.  93 

Watching  the  stars  come  in  with  tearful  eyes ; 

And  I  had  seen  them  all  go  out  again, 

And  the  broad  sun  wheel  forth  in  majesty. 

And  I  had  had  dreams  of  the  narrow  house, 

Clods  and  the  coffin,  and  had  thought  the  grass 

Would  soon  grow  on  my  gravestone,  and  the  world 

Would  tread  upon  me  carelessly,  and  yet 

I  kept  me  cheerful,  and  I  felt  that  life 

Had  many,  many  blessings.     I  had  smiles 

Constant  around  me,  and  such  blessings  as 

Come  with  a  mother's  love.     I  was  not  left 

Without  a  soft  eye's  sympathies,  and  a  voice 

Sweet  as  an  angel's  whisperings,  and  a  hand 

To  smooth  my  pillow,  and  a  gentle  heart 

To  rest  mine  own  on.     Neither  was  I  kept 

From  thoughts  both  good  and  beautiful.     The  eye 

Would  not  be  hem'd  in  by  the  narrow  walls, 

On  which  it  rested  wearily ;  those  walls 

Were  bent  away,  and  the  clear  mind  went  off 

Upon  the  paths  of  Nature.     I,  methought, 

Stood  in  the  fields  again ;  stood  on  the  hills — 

The  old  hills  propping  heaven ;  stood  by  the  streams ; 

Heard  the  brooks  chatter  freely,  and  the  birds 

Whistle  together.     I  climb'd  one  tall  mount 

Looking  out  on  a  prospect  that  the  heart 

Gladden'd  with  more  than  joy.     As  I  went  up, 

Here  through  a  fissure,  there  wound  round  a  clump 

Of  beeches  growing  together,  here  again 

Coming  on  a  green  grassplot,  or  paus'd  there 

Startled,  and  bent  myself  o'er  some  wild  chasm 


94  THE    CHEERFUL    INVALID. 

Carved  by  the  thunder,  and  down  which  went  now 

Torrents  and  waters,  until,  coming  out 

On  the  proud  headland,  I  cast  my  dim'd  eye 

Over  a  mighty  sweep,  and  then  on  high 

To  the  blue  concave  bending  to  the  hills — 

I  thought  that  heart  was  less  than  human,  which 

Glowed  not  at  such  a  scene.     The  forest  there 

Was  far  below  me,  and  the  wood  sent  up 

Into  my  ears,  a  shout  like  armed  men 

Tramping  to  battle.     Rivulets  and  streams 

Vein'd  the  green  meadows ;  groves  stood  in  the  sun 

Sheltering  the  panting  herds ;  and  steeples,  too, 

Peep'd  up  beyond  the  notches  of  the  hills ; 

And  cots,  and  villages,  and  scatter'd  farms 

On  ev'ry  side  of  me ;  and,  down  on  all 

Falling  the  summer's  sun  like  a  bright  robe 

Genial  as  beautiful,  it  seem'd  that  earth 

Had  just  come  from  God's  hand.  This  scene  was  mine, 

And  other  and  far  more  than  this ;  for  fancy 

Came  to  the  watcher,  and  her  wing  tired  not 

From  morn  till  glowing  eve.     The  mind,  well  stored 

With  images  from  Nature,  thus  lives  on, 

Making  a  world  where  all  hath  pass'd  away. 

And  yet  I  had  some  sterner  lessons  here. 
Ay !  sickness  hath  a  higher  gift  to  man, 
And  sorrow  higher  offices.     The  heart 
Sports,  like  a  child  upon  a  precipice, 
With  its  worst  dangers,  when  the  rich  full  flood 
Of  life  runs  riot  through  the  veins ;  and  fancy, 


THE    CHEERFUL    INVALID.  95 

Ever  at  hand,  weaves  her  fair  images 
Bright  in  the  eye  of  Hope,  and  takes  from  us 
Just  views  of  human  life.     The  voice  of  Nature 
Varied  and  sweet ;  her  many  thousand  forms, 
Her  many  thousand  hues ;  each  by  its  own, 
And  individual  beauty,  sets  a  grasp — 
A  pleasant,  yet  dread  grasp  upon  our  souls, 
Most  dangerous  to  their  destinies.     The  breeze, 
The  gentlest  one  that  skims  the  summer  lake, 
Scarce  crinkling  its  blue  surface,  and  the  roar 
That  Ocean  makes  against  his  rocky  bounds, 
Mad  den  Jd  by  tempests ;  all  that's  sweet  and  soothing, 
That's  solemn  and  magnificent,  to  stir  us 
With  beautiful,  and  elevated  thoughts, 
Of  God  and  boundless  power ;  these  have  their  end, 
May  come  to  us,  and  they  may  claim  our  love, 
But  never  our  devotion.     The  affections 
That  spring  in  us,  and  nestle  round  our  hearts ; 
The  social  sweetness  of  domestic  life, 
And  fireside  happiness ;  the  thronging  crowd 
Of  friendships,  and  of  brotherhoods ;  the  ties 
That  link  into  one  commonwealth  of  love, 
The  family  of  man ;  all  these,  though  pure 
In  their  appropriate  offices,  can  turn 
The  heart  from  God,  and  chain  it  down  to  dust 
With  gyves  of  iron.     And  the  fetters,  too, 
Our  baser  natures  forge,  when  lifted  up 
By  fame's  hoarse  plaudits,  and  the  gath'ring  tide 
Of  wishes  and  high  dreams  (that  chase  away 
Sleep  from  the  eye,  and  peace  from  the  worn  heart) 

15 


96  THE    CHEERFUL    INVALID. 

Come  in  upon  us,  and  take  from  our  souls 

Love  for  our  fellows,  and  make  self  the  altar 

For  each  first  sacrifice.     Ay !  varied  all 

As  are  our  natures,  the  mad  shifts  we  make 

To  keep  us  thoughtless,  and  so  shuffle  by 

The  flying  hours,  and  keep  the  heart  barr'd  close 

To  thoughts  of  the  future.     We  can  stand  upon 

The  graves  of  yesterday,  or  by  the  old 

Time-serving  monuments  of  other  days, 

And  weave  wild  visions — ay !  as  wildly  weave  them 

As  in  a  crowd.     Who  stands  at  summer's  eve, 

Where  the  bat's  wing  in  melancholy  poise 

Sweeps  darkly  through  the  gloom ;  or  by  some  old 

And  Abbied  pile,  where  at  each  foot-fall  rings 

The  charnel  under  him,  as  the  smouldering  dead 

Spake  from  their  graves,  and  yet  could  all  shake  off 

This  mortal  being,  and  forget  the  world 

And  the  world's  follies  ?     Sacred  courts  are  not 

Held  sacred,  but  are  desecrated  by 

Our  human  vanities ;  for  we  can  lift 

The  voice  of  adoration,  mid  the  pomp 

Of  pealing  anthems,  and  the  glories  of 

These  wild  excitements ;  and  yet  let  the  heart 

Dream  of  course  pleasures,  mating  with  the  dust. 

But  sickness  now,  though  sometimes  a  sad  nurse, 

Is  yet  a  min'st'ring  angel ;  for  it  comes 

When  things  have  this  false  value  in  man's  eyes, 

And  tears  the  veil  away.     The  wealth  of  worlds, 

The  intellectual  lore  by  years  cull'd  out, 

The  roar  reverberate  of  Fame's  thunder  trump, 


THE    CHEERFUL    INVALID.  97 

The  shout  of  multitudes,  and  pomp  and  state — 

Oh  !  what  are  these,  when  the  bright  eye  grows  dim, 

And  the  voice  falters  from  disease,  and  fancies 

Dire  and  deep  shadow'd,  rise  upon  our  sight, 

Scatt'ring  the  world's  gay  visions  1     Empty  all — 

As  empty  as  the  shadowings  of  dreams, 

Or  colors  in  the  rainbow !     Each  and  all 

Take  their  appropriate  value,  and  we  look 

As  from  some  height,  down  on  this  busied  world, 

And  sigh  and  sicken  at  the  state  of  man. 

Yet  these  are  moody  thoughts,  and  should  not  be 
Frequent  indulged  in.     Sickness,  of  itself, 
Hath  griefs  enough ;  and  the  quick  heart  should  not 
Wander  for  others.     Thought  should  rather  be 
Left  with  the  gentle  and  the  beautiful ; 
And  thus,  that  curious  harp,  the  human  mind, 
Keep  its  strings  sounding.     For  myself,  I  ween, 
Such  were  my  means  of  happiness ;  and  those  hours 
When  God's  hand  rested  on  me  heavily, 
Are  now  linked  with  so  many  memories 
Gentle  and  sweet,  I  leave  this  record  here 
Of  a  glad  morning's  dreams. 


98 


"I   WOULD  I  WERE  A   CHILD  AGAIN." 


I  would  I  were  a  child  again — 

I  would  I  were  a  boy — 
With  my  laughing  cheek,  and  bright  blue  eye, 

And  heart  of  bounding  joy ! 
I  would  I  could  but  feel  once  more 

The  happiness  which  then, 
Went  through  and  through  my  heart — 

Ah,  yes !  would  it  were  mine  again ! 

I  would  I  had  the  heart  to  feel 

The  beautiful  and  true, 
As  I  could  feel  in  those  young  days 

When  every  thing  was  new ! 
And  would  I  had  the  eye  as  then, 

To  see  each  thing  so  fair — 
The  broad  fresh  earth,  the  bright  blue  sea, 

The  sky,  and  summer  air ! 

And  would  I  were  as  innocent, 

As  pure  of  heart  as  then ! 
And  would  that  my  to-morrow's  all 

Might  be  as  bright  again ! 
When  every  moment  brought  some  joy 


I    WOULD    I    WERE    A    CHILD    AGAIN.  99 

I  had  not  known  before, 
And  thought  was  light  as  bubbles  are 
That  break  upon  the  shore  ! 

I  know  I  us'd  to  go  abroad 

When  Spring  was  on  the  earth, 
And  birds  were  free,  and  rivulets 

Went  rattling  in  their  mirth ; 
But  not  a  stream  was  found  that  went 

The  spring's  fresh  bowers  among, 
To  rattle  half  so  merrily, 

As  rattled  there  my  tongue. 

And  when  the  suns  grew  brief  and  low, 

And  Autumn  winds  were  chill, 
And  a  garment  of  wild  glory  wrapp'd 

The  valley  and  the  hill ; 
And  softly  twirled  the  falling  leaves, 

And  birds  sang  sweet  and  slow — 
I  know  my  heart  sent  forth  a  strain, 

So  sad,  so  sweet,  so  low. 

My  heart  took  all  the  colors  which 

The  face  of  Nature  wore ; 
My  sadden'd  morns  had  merry  eves, 

No  griefs  my  spirit  bore ; 
And  then  the  happy  joy  I  caught 

From  faces  bright  like  mine, 
And  the  merry  songs  we  used  to  sing, 

Those  '  days  of  auld  lang  syne.5 


100  I    WOULD    I    WERE    A    CHILD    AGAIN. 

The  church-yard  and  the  old  church  tower, 

The  bell  kept  there  for  pride, 
Which  we  us'd  to,  stealing  in  at  night, 

Ring  wild  from  side  to  side ; 
And  the  better  holier  thoughts  than  these, 

When  we  us'd  to  gather  there, 
And  listen  with  a  child's  amaze, 

To  the  sweet  hymn  and  the  prayer. 

And  then  the  orchard  path,  that  wound 

Along  the  mountain  side ; 
And  the  river  too,  where  we  us'd  to  go, 

And  lave  in  the  summer  tide ; 
The  ring,  the  jest,  the  game,  the  ball — 

Those  follies  of  young  years  ; 
They  come  again,  a  merry  train, 

And  cheat  me  into  tears. 

Alas,  for  that  stern  stoic  pride, 

Which  scoffs  a  theme  like  this ! 
Methinks  his  heart  was  fashion'd 

When  they  never  dream'd  of  bliss ; 
Come  man ! — go  back  with  me,  and  look 

Upon  your  home  again  ; 
What !  weeping,  sir  ? — I  thought  you  said, 

Such  thoughts  as  these  were  vain. 


101 


OCTOBER. 


A  MILD  day  of  the  Autumn.     O  !  it  is 
A  day  to  crowd  the  tears  into  one's  eyes 
With  its  bewitching  sweetness,  and  to  give 
The  heart  a  nobler  pulse  for  God  and  Heaven ! 
The  month  has  been  a  dark  one.     Storm  and  sun, 
And  shades  and  shiftings  of  the  element, 
Have  made  the  pathways  dull,  and  shut  the  woods, 
And  the  long  rambles  on  the  noontide  hills, 
Away  from  us,  and  we  had  almost  thought, 
We  should  not  have  our  number  of  the  days 
Of  the  delicious  season.     Yet  it  is 
A  sunny  day  to-day,  and  the  round  sky 
Looks  down  so  softly,  and  the  misty  veil 
Transparently  rolls  up  around  the  hills 
So  in  the  sunlight,  that  it  seems  as  if 
Heaven  had  thrown  open  wide  its  golden  gates, 
To  give  one  breath  upon  the  world  below ! 

I  have  been  shut  up  with  my  student's  books, 
For  days  and  nights  of  toil.     I  have  led  in 
The  stars  with  my  lone  vigil,  and  have  watch'd 
Them  out  again  with  dreaming.     Ay !  and  I 
Have  felt  the  mad  ring  of  the  brain,  and  felt 


102  OCTOBER. 

The  blood  course  sluggish  through  my  heart,  and  fitfully 
Flushing  my  cheek  and  temples,  till  my  need 
Has  come  upon  me  sudden,  and  I  thirsted 
For  heaven's  glad  breath  once  more. 

And  here  it  is, 

Bounding  to  greet  me  !    Through  my  casement  comes 
The  last  breath  of  the  year,  and  yet  it  is 
Of  an  intoxicating  sweetness,  and 
Methinks  it  hath  the  kindly  scent  of  flowers. 
O,  what  a  day  to  dream  in,  and  grow  better 
With  every  moment !     What  a  day  to  fling 
Sorrow  from  off  the  heart,  and  give  our  thoughts 
To  all  things  good  and  beautiful !     What  a  day 
To  school  the  heart  to  truth,  and  strengthen  it 
With  golden  resolutions ;  so  that  when 
These  days  have  pass'd  away,  and  with  them  now 
The  life  that's  dancing  in  us,  and  do  sorrows 
Come  as  we  know  they  must  come,  and  the  heart 
Is  bow'd  down  with  affliction — we  may  then 
Think  of  who  rules  the  year  for  us,  and  gives, 
Sometimes  in  moments  heaviest,  a  sweet  smile, 
To  lighten,  and  make  glad  the  heart  once  more ! 


103 


OTHER   DAYS.(14) 


How  many  years  have  passed  away 

Since  on  this  spot  I  stood, 
And  heard,  as  now  I  hear  them  play, 

The  voices  of  the  wood, — 
Green  boughs  and  budding  leaves  among, 
Piped  low  in  one  continuous  song  ! 

How  many  years  have  passed,  since  here, 

Upon  this  bald  rock's  crest, 
I  lay  and  watched  the  shadows  clear, 

Upon  the  lake's  blue  breast, — 
Since  here,  in  many  a  poet  dream, 
I  lay  and  heard  the  eagle  scream ! 

The  seasons  have  led  round  the  year 

Many  and  many  a  time ; 
And  other  hands  have  gather'd  here 

The  young  flowers  of  the  clime, — 
The  which  I  wove,  with  thoughts  of  joy, 
Around  my  brows,  an  idle  boy. 

And  there  were  voices  too,  'lang  syne,' 
I  think  I  hear  them  yet ; 
16 


104  OTHER    DAYS. 

And  eyes  that  loved  to  look  on  mine 

I  shall  not  soon  forget ; 
And  hearts  that  felt  for  me  before — 
Alas,  alas,  they'll  feel  no  more. 

I  call  them  by  remember'd  names, 
And  weep  when  I  have  done ; 

The  one,  the  yawning  ocean  claims, 
The  distant  church -yard,  one ; 

I  call — the  wood  takes  up  the  tone, 

And  only  gives  me  back  my  own. 

Still,  from  the  lake,  swell  up  these  walls 
Fronting  the  morning's  sheen ; 

And  still  their  storm -stained  capitals 
Preserve  their  lichens  green ; 

And  still  upon  the  ledge,  I  view 

The  gentian's  eye  of  stainless  blue. 

And  far  along  in  funeral  lines, 
Sheer  to  the  higher  grounds — 

Touch'd  by  the  finger  of  the  winds, 
The  pines  give  out  their  sounds ; 

And  far  below,  the  waters  lie 

Quietly  looking  to  the  sky. 

And  still  a  vale  of  softest  green 
Th'  embracing  prospect  fills, 

And  still  the  river  winds  between 
The  parting  of  the  hills, 


OTHER    DAYS.  105 

The  sky  still  blue,  the  flowers  still  found, 
Just  bursting  from  the  moist  spring  ground. 

So  was  it  many  years  ago 

As  on  this  spot  I  stood, 
And  heard  the  waters  lave  below 

The  edges  of  the  wood, 
And  thought,  while  music  fill'd  the  air, 
The  fairies  held  their  revel  there. 

And  I  alone  am  changed  since  then — 

Youth  has  forsaken  me  ; 
Fancy  has  thrown  aside  her  pen, 

And  truth  has  taken  me ; 
And  in  the  world,  mid  other  things, 
They  call  me  man — Oh !  how  it  stings. 

I  ask  these  scenes  to  give  me  back 

My  fresh  glad  thoughts  again ; 
Alas,  they  lie  along  the  track 

Which  I  have  trod  with  men ! 
The  flowers  I  gather'd  here,  a  child, 
I  pluck'd,  it  seems,  to  deck  a  wild. 

I  have  escaped  the  city's  bounds — 
Its  horrid  heat,  and  withering  air ; 

And  here,  where  the  gray  forest  crowns 
The  precipice,  I  bare 

My  hot  brow  to  the  breeze — and  feel 

Its  breath  of  balm  about  me  steal. 


106  OTHER    DAYS. 

And  here  upon  this  rock  I  lie, 

Gazing  up  into  heaven ; 
Watching  the  swallows  of  the  sky, 

Upward  and  upward  driven ; 
Or  watching  the  clouds,  that,  one  by  one, 
Quietly  melt  into  the  sun. 

Oh,  would  that  the  deep  rest  that  fills 
This  scene,  might  leave  me  never ! 

Would  that  the  circuit  of  these  hills 
Might  shut  me  in  forever ! 

For  wisdom,  prize  it  as  I  may, 

Pll  not  thus  give  my  life  away. 

Oh,  joyously  I  would  come  back, 
As  the  tired  bird  comes  home ; 

That,  wearied  with  her  high  bright  track, 
Far  through  the  azure  dome — 

At  eve,  drops  down  into  her  nest, 

To  lean  upon  one  faithful  breast ! 


107 


A  MIDNIGHT   MEDITATION. 

"  Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold  ; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb,  which  thou  behold'st, 
But  in  its  motion  like  an  angel  sings 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubim." 

Shakspeare. 

SILENCE,  and  Night !  it  is  the  time  for  thought ; 
And  the  lone  dreamer  sends  his  weary  eye, 
Out  from  the  casement,  up  to  the  dim  stars ; 
And  deems  that  from  those  rolling  worlds  comes  to  him 
A  cheering  voice.     How  beautiful  they  are — 
Those  sparkling  fires  in  that  eternal  void ! 
They  seem  like  jewels  on  the  crown  of  Him, 
The  Lord !  the  Crucified !     They  do  hang  there, 
Bright,  as  when  bursting  o'er  this  lower  world 
Then  heaving  into  beauty — the  fair  lands, 
Valleys,  and  hills ;  the  streams,  the  lakes,  the  seas, 
With  their  blue  depths ;  the  ocean,  with  its  waves 
Restless  forever — as  when  these  burst  forth, 
And  over  them  God  spread  this  canopy 
Of  grandeur  and  of  glory !     There  they  hang, 
Emblems  of  his  great  hand  who  placed  them  there, 
And  bade  them  roll  to  one  eternal  hymn 
Of  heavenly  harmony !     Away — away — 
Farther  and  farther  on,  thought  flies ;  and  yet 


108  A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION. 

Reaches  them  not.     Beyond  the  wild  blue  track 

Of  this  our  world,  it  sweeps ;  beyond  the  track 

Of  that  ring'd  orb,  the  heathen  deified, 

Old  Saturn  named ;  beyond  the  path  of  that 

They  called  the  Thunderer ;  ay !  and  beyond 

The  track  sublime  of  our  great  burning  orb, 

Hanging  alone  in  heaven — beyond  all  these, 

Thought,  seraph-winged,  sweeps  daringly,  and  yet 

Reaches  not  the  first  trace  of  those  far  fires, 

Glowing  yet  never  fading ;  myriads  burning 

In  the  blue  concave,  where  no  thought  may  pierce, 

Save  the  Eternal's.     And  yet  those  bright  orbs 

Created  were,  and  in  harmonious  march 

Traverse  the  air  together.     Not  one  of  all 

Those  sparkling  points  of  scarce  distinguishable  flame, 

But  hath  its  part  and  place  in  that  grand  scheme 

Fixed  by  the  God  of  Heaven.     Laws,  times,  place, 

motions, 

All  these  each  hath ;  and  there  they  roll  forever, 
Changing  and  yet  unchanged.     The  wilder'd  mind 
Turns  from  the  scene  amazed,  and  asks  itself 
If  this  can  be ! 

And  yet,  how  fancy  dreams 

Of  those  bright  worlds !     Tell  us,  ye  unseen  Powers, 
Ye  that  do  gather  round  us  in  these  hours 
When  the  impassion'd  world  lies  locked  in  sleep, 
And  the  day's  whirl  is  over — tell  us  here, 
What  are  those  rolling  worlds !    Are  there  bright  scenes, 
Such  as  we  dream  of  here  1     Are  there  fair  realms, 
Robed  in  such  hues  as  this  ?     Do  wild  hills  there, 


A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION.  109 

Heave  their  high  tops  to  such  a  bright  blue  heaven 
As  this  which  spans  our  world  1   Have  they  rocks  there, 
Ragged  and  thunder-rent,  through  whose  wild  chasms 
Leap  the  white  cataracts,  and  wreath  the  woods 
With  rainbow  coronets  ?     Spread  such  bright  vales 
There  in  the  sunlight ;  cots,  and  villages ; 
Turrets,  and  towers,  and  temples — dwell  these  there, 
Glowing  with  beauty  ?     Wilderness  and  wild, 
Heaving  and  rolling  their  green  tops,  and  ringing 
With  the  glad  notes  of  myriad-colored  birds 
Singing  of  happiness — have  they  these  there  ? 
Spread  such  bright  plains  there  to  th'  admiring  eye, 
Veined  by  glad  brooks,  that,  to  the  loose  white  stones, 
Tell  their  complaint  all  day  1    Waves,  spreading  sheets, 
That  mirror  the  white  clouds ;  and  moon,  and  stars, 
Making  a  mimic  heaven  ?    Streams,  mighty  streams ! 
Waters,  resistless  floods !  that,  rolling  on, 
Gather  like  seas,  and  heave  their  waves  about, 
Mocking  the  tempest  ?     Ocean !  those  vast  tides, 
Tumbling  about  the  globe  with  a  wild  roar 
From  age  to  age  ?    And  tell  us,  do  those  worlds 
Change  like  our  own  ?    Comes  there,  the  merry  Spring, 
Soft  and  sweet- voiced ;  and  in  its  hands  the  wealth 
Of  leaves  to  deck  the  forest ;  flowers,  and  scattered 
In  the  green  vales  and  on  the  slopes,  to  fling 
Over  a  faery  world ;  and  feathery  winds, 
And  airs,  and  smiling  sunshine ;  birds,  and  bees, 
Filling  the  soft  savannas  with  the  sound 
Of  their  low  murmurings  ?     Have  they  the  months 
Of  the  full  Summer,  with  its  skies,  and  clouds, 


110  A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION. 

And  suns,  and  showers,  and  soothing  fragrance  sent 

Up  from  a  thousand  tubes  1     And  Autumn,  too, 

Pensive  and  pale — do  these  sweet  days  come  there, 

Wreathing  the  wilderness  with  such  gay  bands 

Of  brightness  and  of  beauty,  till  the  earth, 

Late  fresh  and  flowering,  seems  like  some  fair  bride, 

Met,  in  the  month  of  dalliance,  with  the  frost 

Of  a  too  killing  sorrow  1     And  sublime — 

Within  his  grasp  the  whirlwinds,  and  his  brows 

White  with  the  storm  of  ages,  and  his  breath 

Fettering  the  streams,  and  ribbing  the  old  hills 

With  ice,  and  sleet,  and  snow ;  and  far  along 

The  sounding  ocean's  side,  his  frosty  chains 

Flinging,  till  the  wild  waves  grow  mute,  or  mutter 

Only  in  their  dread  caves — old  Winter !  he — 

Have  you  him  there  1     And  tell  us,  hath  a  God, 

Sentient  and  wise,  placed  there  the  abstruser  realm 

Of  thinking  and  of  feeling  ?     Have  ye  minds, 

Grasping  and  great  like  ours  ?     And  reaching  souls, 

That,  spurning  their  prison,  burst  away,  and  soar 

Up  to  a  mightier  converse,  than  the  rounds 

Of  a  dull  daily  being  ?     And  warm  hearts, 

Do  they  dwell  there  ?     Hearts  fondly  lock'd  to  hearts, 

Into  each  other's  natures  pouring  wildly, 

Floods  of  deep  feeling,  and  a  life  so  sweet 

Death  doth  but  make  it  sweeter  ?     Have  ye  dreamers, 

Young  hearts !  proud  souls !  that  catch  from  every  thing, 

A  greatness  and  a  grandeur  of  delight, 

That  common  souls  feel  not  ? — souls  that  do  dwell 

Only  in  thoughts  of  beauty,  linking  forth 


A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION.  Ill 

Into  one  mystic  chain,  the  fadeless  flowers 
And  wreathes  of  immortality  ? — that  dwell 
Only  to  think  and  feel,  and  be  the  slaves 
Of  a  sad  nature ;  and,  when  life  is  over, 
Only  to  take  the  charnel  with  the  hope, 
A  star  may  hang  above  them  for  the  eye 
Of  the  far  slumbering  ages  1 

False,  false,  all ! 

And  vain  the  wing  of  fancy  to  explore 
The  track  of  angels !     Vain  thought,  to  fold  back 
This  gorgeous  canopy,  and  send  the  eye 
On  to  those  realms  of  glory !     Mighty  One ! 
Thou  who  dost  look  on  all — the  great,  the  good, 
Humbled,  or  hoping ;  pride,  or  the  poor  wretch 
Laid  on  his  mat  of  misery — thou  dost  watch, 
And  thou  hast  power  o'er  all !     Thou  hast  alone, 
Wrapp'd  in  thine  own  immensity,  the  power, 
To  paint  a  leaf,  or  roll  ten  thousand  worlds 
Around  the  universe !     Oh,  let  the  heart, 
Pained  and  in  sickness  here,  lay  its  poor  hope 
Low  at  thy  feet ;  and  trust,  that  thou  at  last, 
When  thou  shalt  shake  these  heavens,  and  rend  away 
The  pillars  of  the  universe,  wilt  save 
This  glimmering  mind  now  here,  to  be  a  star — 
Bright,  for  some  other  world  ! 


17 


112 


FANNY  WILLOUGHBY. 


" a  faery  vision 

Of  some  gay  creature  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live 
And  play  i'  the  plighted  clouds.' 


Milton's  Comus. 


I  LOVE  thee,  Fanny  Willoughby, 

And  that's  the  why,  ye  see, 
I  woo  thee,  Fanny  Willoughby, 

And  cannot  let  thee  be ; 
I  sing  for  thee,  I  sigh  for  thee, 

And  O !  you  may  depend  on't, 
I'll  weep  for  thee,  I'll  die  for  thee, 

And  that  will  be  the  end  on't. 

"  I  love  thy  form,  I  worship  it — 

To  me  it  always  seems, 
As  if  it  were  the  counterfeit 

Of  some  I've  seen  in  dreams ; 
It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had 

An  angel  by  my  side ; 
And  then  I  think  I  am  so  bad, 

You  will  not  be  my  bride. 

"  I  love  the  golden  locks  that  glow 
About  that  brow  of  thine ; 

I  always  thought  them  '  so  and  so,' 
But  now  they  are  divine ; 


FANNY    WILLOUGHBY.  113 

They're  like  an  Alpine  torrent's  rush — 

The  finest  under  heaven  ; 
They're  like  the  bolted  clouds,  that  flush 

The  sky  of  summer's  even. 

"  I  love  thy  clear  and  hazel  eye — 

They  say  the  blue  is  fairer ; 
And  I  confess  that  formerly 

I  thought  the  blue  the  rarer ; 
But  when  I  saw  thine  eye  so  clear, 

Though  perfectly  at  rest, 
I  did  kneel  down,  and  I  did  swear, 

The  hazel  was  the  best. 

"  I  love  thy  hand  so  pale  and  soft, 

The  which,  in  days  '  lang  syne,' 
Ye,  innocent  as  trusting,  oft 

Would  softly  clasp  in  mine ; 
I  thought  it  sure  was  chiseled  out 

Of  marble  by  the  geniuses, 
The  which  the  poets  rant  about, 

The  virgins  and  the  Venuses. 

"I  love  the  sounds  that  from  thy  lip 

Gush  holily  and  free, 
As  rills  that  from  their  caverns  slip, 

And  prattle  to  the  sea ; 
The  melody  for  aye  doth  steal 

To  hearts  by  sorrow  riven, 
And  then  I  think,  and  then  I  feel, 

That  music  comes  from  Heaven. 


114  FANNY    WILLOUGHBY. 

"  Now  listen,  Fanny  Willoughby, 

And  lend  your  heart  to  pity ; 
I'm  ruin'd,  Fanny  Willoughby, 

Because  you  are  so  pretty ; 
And  now  if  you've  no  mercy  when 

So  low  I  sigh  and  sing  for't, 
Why  I  shall  surely  die  and  then, 

Alas !  you'll  have  to  swing  for't." 

'Twas  thus,  when  love  had  made  me  mad, 

For  Fanny  Willoughby, 
I  told  my  tale,  half  gay,  half  sad, 

To  Fanny  Willoughby ; 
And  Fanny  look'd  as  maiden  would, 

When  love  her  heart  did  burn ; 
And  Fanny  sigh'd  as  maiden  should, 

And  murmur'd  a  return. 

So  woo'd  I  Fanny  Willoughby — 

A  maiden  like  a  dove ; 
So  won  I  Fanny  Willoughby — 

The  maiden  of  my  love ; 
And  now  though  mid  life's  cares  I  fret, 

And  she  is  in  the  sky, 
I  never,  never  can  forget 

Sweet  Fanny  Willoughby. 


115 


A  VISION  OF  WAR. 


I  HAD  a  vision.     There  did  come  to  me, 
A  thing  for  which  I  could  not  fix  a  name — 
So  dark,  so  wild,  so  awfully  terrible, 
Its  presence  made  me  shiver,  and  the  pulses 
Which  beat  about  the  arteries  of  my  heart, 
Curdle  with  horror.     'Twas  a  field  of  blood ! 
A  battle  field,  where  Carnage  rioted ! 
And  War  went  thundering  on  his  iron  car, 
Grinding  its  damning  wheels  on  bones,  and  skulls, 
And  corses  gashed — the  red  wounds  spouting  yet 
The  heart's  blood  freshly,  and  the  upturned  eye 
Quivering  beneath  the  vengeance ! 

There  was  one, 

Straight  as  the  ash,  and  sturdy  as  the  rocks 
Of  his  own  native  Macedon,  and  he 
Did  seem  to  lay  his  hand  upon  the  world, 
Till,  gathering  in  one  mighty  clutch  her  kings 
And  emperors,  he  dash'd  them  into  dust 
Like  to  another  Jupiter,  then  planted 
His  own  unlorded  foot  upon  their  necks, 
And  wept  for  more  to  murder ! — He  pass'd  on. 

Another  came — with  aspect  less  sublime, 
Yet  nobler  far.     The  regal  diadem 


116  A    VISION    OF    WAR. 

Sat  him  most  kinglily,  and  there  was  that 
Of  majesty,  and  grandeur,  and  high  thought, 
In  the  deep  fullness  of  his  steady  gaze, 
That,  wheresoe'er  he  turn'd  him,  that  proud  look 
Did  make  the  nations  tremble ! — He  pass'd  on. 

Then  presently  another  came  in  view, 
A  unity  of  both :  his  sable  front 
Black  as  the  scowl  of  Night ;  and  'neath  his  brows 
Shaggy,  and  knit,  and  fierce,  shot  forth  the  soul 
Whose  glare  was  terrible.     I  saw  him  walk 
The  ocean  like  a  God,  and  when  he  sat 
His  armies  on  the  shores  of  Italy, 
The  land  shook  to  receive  him.     He  strode  on, 
As  if  the  earth  were  his,  and  he  a  thing 
Superior  to  the  elements.     The  storms 
Elanced  by  the  Almighty  on  his  breast, 
He  seemed  to  take  up  and  hurl  back  again, 
Daring  their  worst.     He  laid  his  hand  upon 
The  icy  regions  of  eternal  frost, 
The  old  and  mighty  barriers  of  Nature, 
And,  like  a  bauble  in  an  infant's  hand, 
They  crumbled  and  let  him  pass  them ! — He  pass'd  on. 

Then  saw  I,  at  a  glance,  the  three  move  on 
To  fight  and  victory !     Where'er  they  came, 
Their  pathways  were  block'd  up  with  dead  mens'  skulls, 
And  bones,  and  rotting  carcasses,  and  the  implements 
Of  blood  and  warfare !     Villages  sent  up, 
Mid  smoke  and  flame,  the  shrieks  of  famish'd  ones, 


A    VISION    OF    WAR.  117 

'  Urged  by  constraint  of  hunger'  to  feed  on 

The  fruit  of  their  own  loins — their  children  murdering, 

Sucking  their  blood  for  life !     And  virgins  too, 

Tender  and  delicate  as  the  first  blown  flower, 

That,  violated  'neath  th'  unblushing  front 

Of  new-born  heaven,  were  left,  spoiled,  blasted,  cursed, 

Useless  as  weeds,  or  wrecks,  on  barren  coasts, 

Tossed  up  by  ocean !     Hospitals  and  dwellings, 

Choked  to  their  gates  with  dead  and  dying  men — 

From  whom  sent  up,  were  heard  the  fiendish  yells, 

And  execrations  of  hell-stricken  souls, 

Dying  unshrived  and  unaneled !     Vast  rivers 

Ran  blood — ay,  all  their  waves  were  clotted  o'er, 

As  if  their  sources  were  some  mighty  heart 

Gashed  to  its  death  !     Huge  ships  went  down  on  fire, 

Belching  their  thunders !  earth  shook !  all  incarnadine 

Were  land  and  sea,  till  Desolation  sat 

The  mistress  of  the  world !     Then  heard  I  there, 

A  voice  more  fearful  than  ten  thousand  thunders, 

Calling  to  judgment ! — the  tall  hills  were  bowed 

And  ran  in  fire,  the  infinite  hosts  of  heaven 

Were  out  of  place,  and  the  dread  sentence  ran, 

That  '  time  shall  be  no  more !' 

The  sound  awoke  me 
Trembling,  and  pale,  and  icy,  as  the  hand 
Of  Death  were  on  me ;  and,  while  gushed  the  tears 
Of  thankfulness,  I  bowed  me  in  the  dust ; 
And  poured  unto  high  heaven  my  solemn  prayer, 
That  it  was — but  a  dream. 


118 


PEN  AND  INK. 


I  DO  not  know,  I  do  not  know, 

But  yet  I  cannot  think, 
That  earth  has  pleasures  sweeter  than 

Are  found  with  pen  and  ink ; 
This  whiling  off  an  idle  hour 

With  torturing  into  rhyme, 
The  pretty  thoughts,  and  pretty  words, 

That  do  so  softly  chime. 

I  know  it  must  be  sad  for  such 

As  cannot  make  the  verse, 
Dash  gaily  off,  and  gallop  on, 

Delightfully  and  terse ; 
But  when  the  thought  is  beautiful, 

And  words  are  not  amiss, 
O,  tell  me  what  on  earth  can  bring 

A  joy  so  pure  as  this ! 

They  sadly  err,  and  slander  too, 

This  lovely  world  of  ours, 
Who  say  we  gather  thorns  enough, 

But  never  gather  flowers ; 
Why,  look  abroad  on  field  and  sky — 


PEN    AND    INK.  119 

There  is  a  welcome  there ; 

And  who,  amid  such  happiness, 

Can  weep  or  think  of  care  ? 

The  natural  world  is  full  of  forms 

Both  beautiful  and  bright ; 
The  forest  leaves  are  beautiful, 

There's  beauty  in  the  light ; 
And  all  that  meets  us  makes  us  feel, 

That  grieving  is  unkind ; 
And  says  be  happy  in  this  world, 

And  fling  your  cares  behind. 

The  mental  world  is  beauty  too, 

And  deck'd  in  beauty  rare ; 
Whate'er  we  see,  whate'er  we  dream, 

We  find  it  imaged  there ; 
A  halo  circles  all  that  is, 

The  sprightly  and  the  tame ; 
And  gives  to  airy  nothings  too, 

A  dwelling  and  a  name. 

And  beauty,  such  as  only  breathes 

Upon  a  seraph's  lyre, 
Is  in  this  world,  and  comes  to  us, 

And  gives  us  souls  of  fire ; 
We  love,  and  we  forget  the  ills 

That  to  the  earth  belong ; 
And  life  becomes  one  holy  dream 

Of  rapture  and  of  song ! 
18 


120  PEN    AND    INK. 

And  he  who  scribbles  verses  knows 

(And  no  one  knows  but  him) 
That  this  is  but  a  picture  here — 

A  picture  dull  and  dim ; 
Of  that  delight  which  thrills  the  heart 

Of  him  who  can  'in  time,' 
Arrest  the  thought,  and  give  it  word, 

And  twist  it  into  rhyme. 

And  when  I  sigh  and  weep,  (which  things 

Will  happen  now  and  then,) 
And  I  have  nought  to  do  but  stop, 

And  then  begin  again ; 
Why  then  I  hie  me  to  my  desk, 

And  sit  me  down  and  think ; 
And  few  companions  please  me  so, 

As  these — my  pen  and  ink. 


121 


THE  WOOD  ROBIN. 


READER  !  if  thou  art  sadden'd  with  the  ills 
That  crowd  around  thy  pathway ;  if  thy  heart 
Has  ever  felt  th*  ingratitude  of  earth, 
Which  made  thee  wish  to  leave  it ;  and  if  thou 
Art  one  still  pure  in  feeling,  and  canst  find 
A  bliss  in  solitude,  or  aught  that's  there — 
Come  to  these  woods.     We  will  sing  here  together, 
A  song,  a  song  I  learn'd  among  them  once 
When  but  a  boy,  a  time  when  poetry 
Was  worshipp'd  as  we  worship  some  sweet  dream. 

"Ere  yet  the  golden  sun  his  course  renews, 
And  softest  daybreak  glimmers  in  the  east, 
Clear,  deep,  and  mellow,  shrills  the  robin's  note, 
And  hails  the  opening  day.     From  some  tall  bough, 
The  highest  of  the  elm,  or  gaudy  maple, 
He  pours  his  plaint,  and  to  the  ear  of  Morn 
Makes  gladsome  music.     From  his  couch  the  woodman 
Starts  at  the  well-know  summons,  and  goes  forth ; 
As  he  hies  him  to  his  task,  more  loud 
The  song  comes  through  the  arches  of  the  grove. 
And  now,  while  loudly  the  sonorous  axe 
Fills  with  deep  voice  the  solitude,  his  ear 


122  THE    WOOD    ROBIN. 

Detects  the  hymn,  between  each  loud  response, 

His  friend  began  before  him ;  louder  still, 

And  louder  yet  again,  until  the  sun 

Bursts  through  the  congregated  mass  of  clouds, 

And  sends  his  gladd'ning  glory  o'er  the  world. 

Meanwhile  the  woodman  pauses  at  his  task, 

Shading  with  brawny  hand  his  swarthy  brow ; 

And,  circling  all  the  wood  with  his  keen  eye, 

He  spies  at  last  the  little  chorister, 

Perch'd  on  the  neighb'ring  hill-top,  or  the  ash. 

Sweet  is  his  note !     Sweet  in  the  early  Spring, 

When  hawthorns  bud,  and  o'er  the  dewy  lea 

Daisies  spring  freshly !     Sweet  in  summer  hours, 

When  from  the  apple  tree,  or  prickly  pear, 

It  flows  mellifluous !     But  sweeter  far 

Its  soothing  alternation,  when  the  winds 

Weave  withered  chaplets  for  old  Autumn's  brow ; 

When  trees  cast  down  their  fruitage,  and  the  woods 

Assume  the  gorgeous  livery  of  decay. 

Then  doth  he  leave  the  tall  elm's  topmost  twig, 

And  in  the  hazle  hedge,  or  dog-wood  copse, 

With  faint  strain,  listless,  while  away  the  time. 

Plaintive,  yet  sadly  sweet,  still  is  his  song, 

And  sings  he,  as  if  half  afraid  to  hear 

His  own  shrill  pipe ;  and,  gentler  now  become, 

(Constrain'd  by  hunger)  where  the  thresher  plies 

The  noisy  flail,  he  hovers,  half  at  ease, 

And  half  distrustful,  with  the  barn-door  tribe. 

There  from  the  ridge,  he  swoops  into  the  croft, 

Swift  on  the  scattered  grain ;  yet  quickly  thence 


THE    WOOD    ROBIN.  123 

Remounts,  awed  by  the  strut  of  chanticleer ; 
Though  soon  alights  again  in  desperate  chance. 
For  hunger  drives  the  lion  from  his  lair, 
And  makes  the  pard  and  thirsty  tiger  tame. 

"  His  is  the  sweetest  note  in  all  our  woods. 
The  whistle  of  the  meadow  lark  is  sweet, 
The  black-bird's  rapid  chant  fills  all  the  vale, 
And  touchingly  sweet  the  unincumber'd  song 
That  the  thrush  warbles  in  the  green-wood  shade, 
Yet  is  the  robin  still  our  sweetest  bird, 
And  beautiful  as  sweet.     His  ruddy  breast 
When  pois'd  on  high,  struck  by  th'  unrisen  sun, 
Glows  from  its  altitude,  and  to  the  sight 
Presents  a  burning  vestiture  of  gold ; 
And  his  dark  pinions,  softly  spread,  improved 
By  contrast,  shame  the  black-bird's  jetty  plumes. 
Less  wild  than  others  of  the  tuneful  choir, 
Oft  on  the  tree  that  shades  the  farmer's  hut, 
Close  by  his  door,  the  little  architect 
Fixes  his  home — though  field-groves,  and  the  woods, 
Where  small  streams  murmur  sweetly,  loves  he  most. 
Who  seeks  his  nest,  may  find  it  deftly  hid 
In  fork  of  branching  elm,  or  poplar  shade ; 
And  sometimes  in  the  crook  of  ancient  fence ; 
And  sometimes  on  the  lawn ;  though  rarely  he, 
The  one  that  sings  the  sweetest,  chooses  thus 
His  habitation.     Seek  for  it  in  deep 
And  tangled  hollows,  up  some  pretty  brook, 
That,  prattling  o'er  the  loose  white  pebbles,  chides 


124  THE    WOOD    ROBIN. 

The  echoes  with  a  soft  monotony 

Of  softest  music.     There,  upon  the  bough 

That  arches  it,  of  fragrance -breathing  birch, 

Or  kalmia  branching  in  unnumber'd  forms, 

He  builds  his  moss -lined  dwelling.     First,  he  lays 

Transverse,  dried  bents  pick'd  from  the  forest  walks ; 

Or  in  the  glen,  where  downward  with  fell  force 

The  mountain  torrent  rushes — these  all  coated 

With  slime  unsightly.     Soon  the  builder  shows 

An  instinct  far  surpassing  human  skill, 

And  lines  it  with  a  layer  of  soft  wool, 

Pick'd  from  the  thorn  where  brush'd  the  straggled  flock  ; 

Or  with  an  intertexture  of  soft  hairs, 

Or  moss,  or  feathers.     Finally,  complete — 

The  usual  list  of  eggs  appear — and  lo ! 

Four  in  the  whole,  and  softly  tinged  with  blue. 

And  now  the  mother  bird  the  live-long  day 

Sits  on  her  charge,  nor  leaves  it  for  her  mate, 

Save  just  to  dip  her  bill  into  the  stream, 

Or  gather  needful  sustenance.     Meanwhile, 

The  mate,  assiduous,  guards  that  mother-bird 

Patient  upon  her  nest ;  and,  at  her  side, 

Or  over  head,  or  on  the  adverse  bank, 

Nestled,  he  all  the  tedious  time  beguiles, 

Wakes  his  wild  notes,  and  sings  the  hours  away. 

"But  soon  again  new  duties  wake  the  pair; 
Their  young  appear.     Love  knocking  at  their  hearts, 
Alert  they  start,  as  by  sure  instinct  led — 
That  beautiful  divinity  in  birds ! 


THE    WOOD    ROBIN.  125 

And  now  they  hop  along  the  forest  edge, 

Or  dive  into  the  ravines  of  the  woods, 

Or  roam  the  fields,  or  skim  the  mossy  bank 

Shading  some  runnel  with  its  antique  forms, 

Pecking  for  sustenance.     Or  now  they  mount 

Into  mid-air ;  or  poise  on  half-shut  wing, 

Skimming  for  insects  in  the  dewy  beam, 

Gaily  disporting ;  or,  now  sweeping  down 

Where  the  wild  brook  flows  on  with  ceaseless  laughter, 

Moisten  their  bills  awhile,  then  soar  away. 

And  so  they  weary  out  the  needful  hours — 

Preaching,  meanwhile,  sound  lesson  unto  man ! 

Till  plump,  and  fledged,  their  little  ones  essay 

Their  native  element.     At  first  they  fail ; 

Flutter  awhile — then,  screaming,  sink  plumb  down, 

Prizes  for  school-boys :  yet  the  more  escape ; 

And,  wiser  grown  and  stronger,  soon  their  wings 

Obedient  send  they  forth ;  when,  confident, 

They  try  the  forest  tops,  or  skim  the  flood, 

Or  fly  up  in  the  skirts  of  the  white  clouds — 

Till,  all  at  once,  they  start,  a  mirthful  throng, 

Burst  into  voice,  and  the  wide  forest  rings !" 


126 


LIFE/15> 


OUR  years,  our  years,  how  fast  they  glide ! 
Life,  like  a  never  sleeping  tide, 

Wild  sweeps  away ; 

And  all  that  the  young  heart  supplied — 
Visions  of  pomp,  and  power,  and  pride — 

Lo,  what  are  they ! 

We  live,  we  love,  we  laugh,  we  sigh ; 
We  cheat  the  heart,  we  cheat  the  eye 

With  things  to  come ; 
Ay !  while  the  gathering  clouds  are  nigh, 
And  the  dread  bolt  is  launch'd  on  high, 

To  be  our  doom. 

We  live — love  brings  its  mysteries ; 
It  clothes  the  earth,  it  clothes  the  skies 

With  visions  bright ; 
The  heart  is  ta'en  with  sweet  surprise, 
It  gives  up  its  best  sympathies — 

Death  brings  a  blight. 

We  live — we  think  of  laurels  won, 

Of  faith  well  kept,  of  proud  deeds  done, 


LIFE.  127 

Then  fix  our  eye ; 

Fame's  thunder-plaudit  cheers  us  on ; 
The  goal  is  in  our  sight — we  run ; 

We  win,  and  die. 

The  laurel'd  brow,  the  heart  elate, 
The  warrior's  fame,  the  monarch's  state, 

The  castled  slave ; 

Each,  as  the  world  proclaims  him  great, 
Trembles !  for  one  is  at  his  gate — 

To  dig  his  grave. 

God  is  not  known  to  pomp  and  pride ; 
Wisdom  is  with  the  good  allied — 

Meekness  receives : 
True !  the  gay  flower  is  first  descried ; 
But  the  low  heath-bell  at  its  side, 

The  longest  lives. 

We  would  forbidden  things  discern ; 
And  name,  and  state,  and  station  earn ; 

Would,  willing,  give 

Our  thoughts  to  things  that  blast  and  burn ; 
When  the  first  lesson  man  should  learn, 

Is — how  to  live. 

The  good  man's  lowly  benison, 
The  fatherless,  and  widow'd  one — 

These  to  receive ; 
The  day  with  thankfulness  begun, 
19 


128  LIFE. 

At  night  the  thoughts  of  good  deeds  done — 
This  is  to  live. 

Whose  thoughts  and  aims  are  thus  elate, 
Whose  heart  is  thus  sublimely  great, 

And  Heaven-ward  borne ; 
He,  though  his  life  be  desolate, 
And  the  grave's  worm  shall  be  his  mate, 

He  should  not  mourn. 

Death ! — let  him  lock  the  sepulcher ! 
He  cannot  lock  the  spirit  there ! 

The  mind  shall  have 
A  prouder  wing,  a  wider  sphere 
Than  its  poor  clayey  lodgment  here, 

And  the  dull  grave ! 

Its  plans,  and  powers,  and  passions — each 
Shall  have  a  bolder  wing,  and  reach 

Endlessly  hence ; 

By  worlds  on  worlds  shall  onward  stretch, 
Sweeping  creation's  bounds,  and  fetch 

Its  glories  thence ! 

Shall  in  the  North  lights  stream  afar ! 
Shall  ride  upon  the  rocket  star ! 

And  where  on  high, 

Flames  through  the  night  the  comet's  car, 
Scatt'ring  abroad  dread  death  and  war — 

There  shall  it  fly ! 


LIFE.  129 

Mate  with  the  Infinite,  and  be 
Glorious,  and  great,  and  full,  and  free ! 

Shall,  tireless,  roll 
Backward — into  eternity, 
Onward — and  wing  futurity, 

A  living  soul ! 

Then  turn  we  from  the  murd'rous  game, 
That  men,  like  idiots,  play  for  fame — 

Things  of  a  day ; 

The  glory  of  the  world — its  shame ! 
Making  the  heart  one  tide  of  flame, 

Ay !  turn  away. 

We  grasp  the  wind,  we  clasp  a  shade ; 
Earth's  proudest  gift's  a  phantom  made, 

So  soon  'tis  flown ; 
The  draught  is  at  our  lips,  afraid 
We  dash  the  chalice  down,  dismay'd — 

That  life  is  gone. 


130 


ON  VISITING  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  SISTER. 


MY  sister !  my  sweet  sister !  I  have  come, 
To  spend  one  lone  still  hour  beside  thy  tomb ; 
To  call,  if  but  in  fancy,  thy  loved  form 
Back  to  my  heart,  still  fond,  still  true,  still  warm ; 
And  cheat  myself  with  thinking  o'er  each  grace, 
Which  once  could  speak  so  much  on  that  dear  face. 
The  morn  is  up,  the  sun  is  mounted  high, 
And  loud  the  birds  are  shouting  in  the  sky ; 
And  far  and  near  sweeps  up  the  scented  breath, 
From  ev'ry  coppice-wood  and  bower  and  heath ; 
But  yet,  sweet  one,  no  charms  for  me  they  have — 
I  kneel  and  press  my  brow  on  thy  damp  grave. 

Alas !  how  many  years  since  that  dark  day, 
When  thou  from  this  loved  heart  wert  forced  away. 
Long  years  they  are,  and  years  of  toil  and  pain, 
God  grant  that — hush !  they  cannot  come  again ; 
Deep  lines  of  thought  are  written  on  my  brow — 
I  wonder  if  thine  eye  would  know  it  now ; 
The  locks  are  thin  where  thy  loved  fingers  strayed, 
The  cheek  is  wrinkled  where  thine  own  was  laid ; 
The  lip  has  learned  the  seal  of  scorn  to  wear, 
The  eye  has  learned  to  mock,  the  heart  to  bear ; 


ON    VISITING    THE    GRAVE    OF    A    SISTER.       131 

And  yet,  yet — yes,  their  pent  wealth  still  bursts  forth, 
Tears  fall,  like  blistering  rain,  o'er  thy  dead  earth. 

Oh !  shall  I  sit  and  paint  that  dreadful  hour, 
When  the  fell  monster  crushed  my  cherish'd  flower  ? 
Shall  the  mind  all  call  back  those  vanish'd  years, 
And  the  soul  drink  its  luxury  of  tears  ? 
Shall  I  stand  gazing  as  I  then  did  stand, 
Watching  thy  panting  breast,  and  trembling  hand  ? 
Thy  quivering  lips,  and  pallid  brow,  and  hear 
Thy  low  sweet  tremulous  tones  fall  on  my  ear  ? 
And  see  thee  as  thy  strength  went  day  by  day, 
Only  more  ready  to  be  calPd  away  ? — 
Oh  God  !  had  other  given  that  dreadful  cup, 
How  had  I  ever  learned  to  drink  it  up  ? 

With  mine  own  hand  was  closed  that  faithful  eye, 
'Twas  mine  own  hand  which  bade  the  hearse  move  by ; 
Thy  brother  mark'd  the  spot  for  thy  poor  clay, 
He  stood  and  saw  them  tear  the  turf  away ; 
And  when  the  solemn  train  came  with  the  dead, 
And  ev'ry  foot-fall  smote  my  heart  like  lead ; 
And  paus'd  they  on  the  brink,  and  solemn  words 
Rose  from  the  crowd,  and  creaked  the  coffin's  cords ; 
And  then  cold  hearts  and  careless  hands  were  bid 
To  fling  the  gravel  on  thy  coffin  lid ; 
Oh  God !  how  lived  I  then  this  hour  to  see — 
I  thought,  that  Heaven  had  shut  its  eye  on  me ! 

Sweet  sister !  I  have  learned  more  wise  since  then, 
To  breast  the  ills  of  life,  and  bear  their  pain ; 


132       ON    VISITING    THE    GRAVE    OF    A    SISTER. 

From  Heaven's  pure  throne  a  ray  has  since  been  shed, 
Over  thy  brother's  heart,  and  round  his  head ; 
And  I  have  learned  as  griefs  come  one  by  one, 
To  kneel  and  say  '  My  God,  thy  will  be  done !' 
And  I  can  bless  the  hand  which  took  thee  now, 
Had  I  another — yes !  e'en  fair  as  thou — 
And  He  should  say  <  my  son  give  me  thy  heart,' 
Why  I  could  snap  its  strings,  and  say  depart ; 
For  I  have  learn'd  this  truth  to  see  and  feel — 
God  breaks  the  heart,  but  God  can  more  than  heal. 


133 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS   CHILD. 


I  CANNOT  say,  I  cannot  say, 

My  beautiful  and  wild, 
I've  ever  seen  so  fair  a  one 

As  thou  my  pretty  child ; 
A  form  so  full  of  elegance, 

A  cheek  where  roses  blow, 
And  a  forehead  where  the  glossy  curls 

Seem  braided  over  snow ; 
A  lip  whence  sounds  of  music  gush 

That  might  with  ease  unsph ere, 
Some  spirit  from  its  airy  halls, 

And  witch  that  spirit  here. 

When  first  thy  mother  gave  thee  me, 

My  beautiful  and  wild, 
And  others  sought  to  gaze  upon, 

And  bless  the  pretty  child ; 
And  thy  soft  lip  to  mine  was  press'd, 

And  thy  soft  hand  I  felt, 
And  felt  all  of  a  father's  heart 

Within  my  bosom  melt ; 
I  know  I  heaved  a  sigh,  for  there 

Was  sadness  in  my  joy — 


(16) 


134  A    FATHER    TO    HIS    CHILD. 

Thou  wert  so  very  beautiful, 
My  smiling  little  boy. 

Where'er  thou  go'st  there  seems  to  go 

A  gladness  and  a  life, 
Which  all  unfitted  is  to  cope 

With  this  sad  world  of  strife ; 
Thou  dost  remind  me  of  the  flowers 

That  are  when  Spring  comes  on, 
Thou  dost  remind  me  of  the  light 

When  comes  and  goes  the  sun ; 
Of  brooks,  and  falling  waters,  when 

They  with  the  pebbles  toy — 
Of  all  that's  bright  and  beautiful, 

My  smiling  little  boy. 

I  mingle  with  the  busied  world, 

And  when  I  find  it  vain 
I  turn  me  to  my  happy  hearth, 

And  little  boy  again  ; 
I  love  to  hear  him  shout  to  me, 

I  love  his  airy  call ; 
I  love  to  hear  his  little  step 

Go  patting  through  the  hall ; 
I  love  to  take  him  on  my  knee 

And  fold  him  into  rest, 
As  doth  the  parent  bird  the  dove 

She  shelters  with  her  breast 

Thy  kind  complaints,  thy  boyish  talk, 
Thy  merriment,  my  boy, 


A    FATHER    TO    HIS    CHILD.  135 

Crush  all  that's  base  within  me,  and 

Smooth  off  the  day's  annoy ; 
Where'er  I  go  if  ills  assail 

And  passion  plays  her  part, 
And  dark  Ambition  spreads  her  gauds 

Before  my  eye  and  heart ; 
And  I  one  moment  list  the  voice 

That  proffers  me  the  crown — 
I  think  me  of  thy  looks,  my  boy, 

And  bid  the  tempter  down. 

Yet  there  will  sometimes  come  to  me 

A  thought  of  sadness  given, 
As  the  dark  cloud  streams  athwart  the  flush 

That  tints  the  sky  of  even ; 
When  I  look  at  thee  and  think  of  thee 

In  all  thine  artlessness, 
And  I  think  how  flowery  is  the  path 

Which  thy  young  foot  doth  press ; 
For  I  know  that  eye  which  sparkles  now 

May  suddenly  be  wet, 
And  the  earth  which  looks  so  lovely  too, 

May  be  a  desert  yet. 

Ah !  yes,  I  tremble  for  my  boy 

With  fears  he  cannot  know, 
Lest  he  take  the  path  which  I  have  ta'en, 

And  find  too  late  its  woe ; 
I  tremble  lest  the  Circean  cup 

May  yet  be  given  him, 
20 


136  A    FATHER   TO    HIS    CHILD. 

With  roses  decked,  and  myrtles  crown'd, 
And  sparkling  to  the  brim ; 

For  O !  his  foot  has  not  yet  tried 
The  path  which  mine  hath  trod, 

Nor  hath  his  young  heart  framed  a  wish 
He  might  not  give  to  God. 

And  yet  I  will  not  think  it — no ! 

It  will  not  cannot  be, 
That  fate  shall  ever  fling  its  shroud 

Of  blackness  over  thee ; 
Thou  art  too  like  thy  mother,  child — 

She  would  not  harm  this  breast, 
And  all  thy  days  have  been  too  like 

The  peaceful  and  the  bless'd  ; 
Thou  can'st  not  other  be  to  me 

Than  this,  my  cradle  joy — 
Thou  wilt  not  grieve  thy  father's  heart, 

My  smiling  little  boy. 


137 


THANATOS. 


THEN  to  this  most  unseemly  dwelling  place 
We  must  all  come.     This  then's  the  fate  of  man. 
His  hopes  and  dreams  of  greatness ;  his  resolves, 
His  grandeur,  and  his  expectations  all ; 
This,  the  cold  grave,  hath  power  to  circumscribe 
And  crush  at  once.     He  must  surrender  back 
His  aspirations,  schemes,  and  toils  of  years, 
And  lay  him  down  as  lowly  as  the  slave — 

And  such  is  life. 

O,  what  are  they  all  worth ! 
The  solemn  dreams,  the  god-like  aspirations, 
High  hopes,  and  fancies,  which  do  come  to  us, 
And  mingle  with  our  poor  humanity — 
What  do  they  purchase  ?     Tell  me,  thou  who  wearest 
The  laurel ;  thou  who  dost  lay  down  at  eve, 
And  know  thou  art  a  favorite  with  the  world ; 
Know  that  its  great  and  gifted  bow  to  thee, 
And  do  thee  homage ;  that  the  young,  and  pure, 
And  beautiful,  too,  pray  for  thy  happiness, 
And  treasure  up  thine  image  as  a  spell, 
In  the  deep  fountains  of  their  tenderness — 
What  do  they  purchase  ?     Do  they  bring  to  thee 


138  THANATOS. 

Contentment,  and  exemption  from  the  woes 

That  wait  on  other  men  ?     Do  they  bring  peace  1 

Bring  they  a  heart  well  suited  with  its  own, 

And  with  the  world  ?     Bring  they  that  certainty, 

And  full  fruition  of  delight,  that  thrill 

To  the  heart's  center?     Do  they  bring  the  hope, 

Which,  when  Death  tugs  in  the  strong  holds  of  Life, 

And  this  frail  tenement  shall  crumble  off, 

Leaving  the  spirit  naked ;  then,  transfused, 

Shall  bear  the  renovated  essence  up 

To  a  new  world,  where  faith  and  Christian  hope 

Bear  the  believer  1     Tell  me,  do  they  this  ? 

Then  wherefore  seek  them  1    Why,  mad  for  the  gauds, 

And  transitory  tinselry  of  earth, 

When  there's  a  solemn  work  for  thee  to  do, 

And  that  work  not  begun  ?    Will  it  be  less, 

That  thou — the  day  of  grace  push'd  further  off — 

Trifle  awhile  with  judgment,  death,  and  hell, 

Choose  light  for  darkness,  feed  thyself  with  husks, 

When  thou  art  dying  for  the  bread  of  life  ? 

Will  it  be  less  that  thou  wear  out  thy  years — 

Thy  young,  best  years,  in  service  of  the  world, 

And  give  thy  woes  to  God  ? 

The  world  is  fair 

Around,  above,  beneath  thee !     Thou  hast  gifts, 
And  thou  hast  thoughts,  and  giant  faculties ! 
Thou  dost  walk  forth  upon  the  breast  of  earth,(17) 
An  active,  thinking,  animated  soul ; 
And  gather  from  the  wonders  of  the  scene — 
The  sea,  the  air,  the  sky,  and  the  round  worlds, 


THANATOS.  139 

And  inapproachable  orbs,  that,  wheeling  on, 

Do  sound  forth  '  our  great  immortality' — 

A  something  which  should  make  thee  holier, 

Fill  thee  with  generous  feelings,  sympathies, 

And  all  the  virtues  of  humanity ! 

But  there's  a  magic  in  that  word,  applause, 

Which  drowns  the  voice  of  wisdom  in  thine  ears ; 

And  hence  thou  dost  walk  forth  upon  the  scene, 

And  hear  the  roar  of  waters,  and  the  sounds 

That  Nature  sends  up  from  her  thousand  depths ; 

And  thou  dost  love  them  only  as  the  means, 

By  which  thou  wouldst  stand  with  the  titled  ones, 

And  god-like,  and  would  write  thyself — immortal ! 

Oh,  granted,  that  thou  purchase  a  bright  name ! 

Granted,  that  thou  stand  up  with  the  titled  ones ! 

Yet  thou  must  die !     Others  have  tried  the  path — 

Have  stood  where  thy  proud  fancy  hurries  thee, 

Call'd  themselves  gods,  and  aped  their  majesty ; 

Have  struggled  for  bays  and  triumphs,  built  themselves 

Proud  mausoleums,  and  given  them  their  own  names  ; 

And  they,  too,  died !    Ay,  rotted  in  the  dust, 

Where  thou  shalt  lie  and  rot,  until  the  earth 

Rouses  her  myriads  to  the  general  doom ! 

Yea !  thou  shalt  take  thy  place  in  the  dark  breast 

Of  this,  thy  mother  earth,  that  nourish'd  thee, 

And  after  generations  seek  in  vain, 

To  tell  their  children  thine  abiding  place — 

And  such  is  life. 

Here  is  a  place  of  tombs, 


140  THANATOS. 

A  mighty  congregation  of  the  dead  ; 

And  here  beneath  this  melancholy  shade, 

I  lie  and  listen  to  the  solemn  voice, 

That  from  this  mournful  company  of  graves, 

Comes  up  to  greet  me.     'Tis  a  solemn  place  ! 

For  this  dark  purple  loam,  whereon  I  lie, 

And  this  green  mould,  the  mother  of  bright  flowers, 

Were  bone  and  sinew  once,  now  decomposed ; 

Perhaps  have  lived,  breathed,  walked  as  proud  as  we ; 

And  animate  with  all  the  faculties, 

And  finer  senses  of  the  human  soul ! 

And  now,  what  are  they  ?  to  their  elements 

Each  has  return'd,  dust  crumbled  back  to  dust, 

The  spirit  gone  to  God.     Ha !  a  loud  stir — 

The  murmur  of  forgotten  generations  ! 

And  ah !  methinks  they  were  not  like  our  own. 

At  least  we  trust  less  guilt  and  wretchedness, 

Less  of  the  evils  that  in  corrupt  hearts 

Gender  and  fall  like  mildews  upon  men, 

Stain'd  the  bright  record  of  their  history. 

And  yet  they  were  the  same !     That  doleful  cry, 

As  of  some  famish'd  widowed  one — that  wail 

Of  shivering  orphans  threaten'd  from  the  doors 

Of  splendid  Affluence — that  miser's  cry, 

So  fitly  mingled  with  the  midnight  curse 

The  robber  uttereth — that  piercing  shriek, 

As  if  press'd  out  from  some  o'erloaded  heart 

By  deep  affliction — these,  all  these  are  ours ; 

And  they  do  witness  with  tremendous  force, 

That  solemn  truth,  that  men  have  been  accursed 


THANATOS.  141 

From  the  beginning.     Men  e'en  now  as  then, 
Do  clutch  their  gold  though  they  be  damn'd  for  it ; 
Proud  Affluence  doth  thunder  by  our  doors, 
And  the  heart-broken  curse  and  cry  aloud 
To  their  destroyers. 

Oh,  my  mother,  Earth ! 

Thou  grievest  for  thy  children !     Thou  dost  feel, 
And  tremble  at  their  dreadful  orgies ; 
And  from  thy  shadowy  vales,  and  cavern'd  hills, 
Thy  rocks,  and  streams,  and  woods,  and  mountains  dim, 
Ocean,  and  all  her  multitudinous  waves, 
There  goeth  up  a  wild  and  general  wail 
Of  guilt  and  horror !     Oh,  my  mother,  Earth ! 
Some  of  thy  children  wail  with  thee,  and  feel 
The  wretchedness  of  poor  humanity ; 
And  they  do  hear  the  cries,  that,  from  lone  walls, 
And  depths,  and  caves,  and  crags,  and  horrid  glooms, 
Are  breathed  to  Heaven ;  cries  that  go  up  to  God, 
By  fell  oppression  crush'd  out  of  men  souls ; 
Groanings  of  saints,  and  martyrs  to  the  truth, 
And  of  the  unnumber'd  millions  that  have  died 
To  'scape  man's  cruelty !     They  feel  with  thee ; 
And  they  do  mourn  the  wolfishness  of  men — 
Their  avarice,  and  readiness  for  crime 
That  darkness  quakes  at ;  and  they  do  lift  up 
Their  ceaseless  prayers,  that  the  incensed  God 
Will  stay  his  day  of  vengeance !     He  but  speaks, 
And  thou  canst  reap  at  once  a  dread  revenge. 
Thy  hills  can  spout  forth  cataracts  of  fire, 
And  whelm  us!     Thou  canst  open  thy  dark  breast, 


142  THANATOS. 

And  such  down  mightiest  nations !    Thy  proud  vassal, 

The  lordly  ocean,  can  uplift  itself, 

And  lay  a  continent  in  ruins  !     Thou, 

If  thou  but  list,  canst  shake  thy  cavernous  frame, 

And  lay  the  mountains  low ;  exalt  the  vales, 

And  scoop  out  all  the  hollows  of  the  seas. 

These  canst  thou  do,  and  yet  men  tremble  not ! 

They  mock  at  Heaven  and  Hell  as  empty  sounds, 

They  sport  with  death  as  children  sport  with  toys, 

To  push  the  laggard  minutes  to  their  graves : 

Poor  idiots !  not  knowing  that  each  moment, 

With  its  surcease,  so  SAvells  the  aggregate 

Of  debt  to  God,  as,  through  eternity, 

It  shall  lie  like  a  mountain  on  the  heart ! 

The  time  will  come — ay !  it  is  hast'ning  on 
With  most  gigantic  strides,  when  men  shall  rouse 
From  their  dark  sleep  of  shame,  scared  by  the  shocks 
Of  the  convulsed  Universe.     The  sun, 
The  golden  sun  shall  darken  in  mid -heaven ! 
The  earth  shall  reel !  the  terror-stricken  moon 
Shall  fly  affrighted  like  some  guilty  thing 
Aghast !  while  all  the  planetary  world, 
The  laws  annull'd  which  erst  directed  them, 
Leaving  their  orbs,  shall,  with  eccentric  march, 
Dash  rude  against  each  other — dire  confusion, 
And  uproar  wild,  proclaiming  the  great  day, 
The  day  of  wrath  is  come !     Oh,  how  the  soul, 
The  sin-gorg'd  soul,  shall  tremble  at  the  sound ; 
And  certainty,  that  judgment  has  at  last, 


THANATOS.  143 

And  dreadful  fear  overtaken  it ;  while  with  eyes 

Dismay'd  at  the  dread  brightness,  it  surveys 

The  Saviour's  glorious  advent,  to  convey 

The  ransom'd  home !     O,  how  the  frighten'd  fool 

Who  dared  irreverent  mouth  his  Maker's  name, 

Shall  tremble  too !     How  shall  the  fatten'd  wretch — 

The  wretch  who  fatten'd  on  the  widow's  tears, 

And  orphan's  cries !     How  shall  the  bloated  priest, 

Who  merged  in  avarice  his  love  to  God, 

And  love  of  souls,  and  dared  to  starve  his  flock 

To  glut  himself!     The  man  who  steep'd  his  hands 

In  blood,  and  bathed  them  in  his  brother's  heart, 

To  feed  his  greediness !     Or  he  who  wound, 

With  purpose  most  accurs'd  and  heart  of  hell, 

His  wiles  around  the  flower  of  innocence, 

And  snapp'd  its  stem !     What  fearful  terrors  now 

Shall  grasp  their  souls,  when  the  loud  curse  of  God 

Shall  fall  upon  them  like  the  direful  shocks 

Of  thrice  ten  thousand  thunder-bolts ! 

O,  God ! 

God  of  this  fearful  world  wherein  we  dwell ! 
God  of  the  rapid  planets  that  in  space 
Traverse  together !  God  of  the  vast  Universe ! 
I  would  send  up  to  thee,  one  solemn  prayer, 
One  parting  adjuration.     Father,  God ! 
Thou  didst  spread  out  these  heavens !     Thou  didst  set 
The  stars  upon  their  thrones,  the  rolling  orbs, 
And  central  worlds,  and  systems,  that  on  high 
Do  chant  thy  praises !     Thou  didst  deign  to  fashion 
This  planet  where  we  dwell ;  give  it  its  form, 

21 


144  THANATOS. 

Its  poetry  of  action,  and  its  life ; 

Thou  didst  spread  round  it  all  its  loveliness, 

Thou  gav'st  the  flowers  their  time,  the  winds  their  soft 

And  gentle  avocation ;  and  the  streams, 

Thou  gav'st  them  their  increase,  the  floods  their  charge, 

The  rocking  ocean  its  solemnity — 

O,  blast  it  not,  Almighty !     Let  it  not, 

The  doom  we  merit,  come  down  on  our  heads, 

And  come  from  thee ;  for  who  shall  dare  withstand 

The  force  of  thy  dread  vengeance !     Let  them  not, 

The  tears,  the  groans,  the  cursings,  and  the  guilt 

Of  ages,  and  the  miserable  scoffs 

Of  us  poor  grov'ling  worms — let  not  all  these 

Provoke  thee  to  hurl  down  on  our  deserts, 

Thy  dark  anathema !     O,  Father,  God ! 

Spare  us,  the  rather  spare  us !     Hear  the  groans — 

The  groans  that  burst  from  Calvary's  top — so  loud, 

So  fearful,  that  Jerusalem's  hills  did  quake, 

And  Salem's  skies  wear  sackcloth ;  and  let  this, 

Hope's  anchor-rock,  turn  off  thy  righteous  wrath 

From  our  transgressions — while  thy  Spirit,  sent 

To  do  its  office,  calls  us  to  the  fold 

Of  Jesus,  the  Redeemer ! 


145 


EAST   ROCK  IN  AUTUMN.(18) 


AND  so  we  have  the  Autumn  here  again  ! 

Well,  let  it  come,  and  let  the  dead  leaves  fall 
Softly  along  the  paths  and  o'er  the  plain 

As  the  wind  stirs  them,  and  let  the  quail  call 
Out  from  the  wood,  and  let  the  flowers  (if  ever 
They  yet  grow  by  the  walks,  or  by  the  river) 

Still  look  up  with  their  soft  and  gentle  eyes, 
Telling  of  the  bright  past,  and  let  the  heart 

Sadden  to  see  them,  and  let  the  replies 

Of  the  sweet  brooks  (that  yet  do  play  their  part 

Low  in  the  reeds,  with  a  half  merry  madness) 

Let  these  too,  if  they  will,  witch  us  to  sadness. 

Sadness  is  often  good  for  us,  they  say ; 

'Tis  wisdom  doubtless.     We  forget,  when  life 
Dances  along  our  veins  in  its  wild  play — 

We  do  forget  the  world,  and  the  world's  strife 
Must  one  day  go  from  us — and  so  we  give 
Our  hearts  up  only  to  learn  how  to  live, 

And  thus  shut  from  us  what  we  ought  to  keep  in't, 
As  man's  first  and  last  lesson — '  Life  at  best 


146  EAST    ROCK    IN    AUTUMN. 

Is  but  a  dream ;  and  earth,  a  man  must  weep  in't, 

In  spite  of  his  best  efforts  to  be  bless'd ; 
Still,  if  we  wisely  live,  there  shall  be  given 
Unto  us  all,  a  crown  of  life  in  Heaven' — 

This  lesson  we  shut  from  us.     Hence,  I  say, 
Let  the  heart  sadden  as  the  trees  grow  sad ; 

And  let  the  fancy,  if  it  will,  go  play 

Out  and  among  them.     We  have  long  been  glad 

With  the  glad  summer ;  and  let  us  now,  here, 

See  how  the  season  decks  its  own  sad  bier. 

A  few  days  since,  how  bright !    How  sad  the  change 
Beauty  and  life  were  here.     The  spring  did  give 

Us  its  soft  showers.     Throughout  the  mighty  range 
Of  the  wide  land,  the  fair  world  did  receive 

Proofs  of  its  love  and  bounty.     Every  thing 

Seemed  glad'ning  in  the  glad'ning  light  of  spring ! 

Then  sprang  the  old  wood  into  life  again, 

And  toss'd  his  green  tops  round  in  the  bright  sun ! 

Then  burst  the  loud  streams  forth,  and  to  the  main 
Rush'd  as  if  joyous  that  spring  was  begun  ! 

Then  from  the  moist  green  mould  sprang  every  where, 

Beauty  to  fill  the  heart,  and  fill  the  air 

With  an  intoxicating  sweetness !    Now 

Look  for  the  old  green  hills.     Alas !  no  more 

Clothes  the  jagg'd  precipice,  or  mountain's  brow — 
Flower-blade,  or  forest.     Like  some  giant  hoar, 


EAST    ROCK    IN    AUTUMN.  147 

Lonely  it  stands.     Along  its  top,  the  pines 
Bristle  like  bayonets,  nor  feel  the  winds. 

And  down  them  hang  dead  vines,  torn,  waste,  and  faded, 
Vines  which  the  spring  spread  o'er  them,  when,  each 
day 

New  life  they  took,  until  that  rock,  there  shaded, 
Seem'd  like  old  Age  in  honorable  decay ; 

The  brow  of  Age,  as  seen  where  there  appears 

The  green  wreathes  mingling  with  the  locks  of  years. 

Look  on  the  landscape  too — how  still  it  lies ! 

Low  lie  the  fields.     The  harvest,  gather'd  in, 
No  longer  rolls  its  broad  sheet  to  the  eyes, 

Or  the  thick  sheaves  of  barley.     Waste  and  thin 
The  groves  appear — and,  far  along  the  ground, 
Fall,  fast  and  thick,  the  leaves  with  a  sad  sound. 

And  yet  she  hath  some  charm  left,  this  old  world ! 

Here  winds  the  path — come !  climb  we  these  proud 

hills ! 
Nay,  let  thy  foot  faint  not.     The  mist  here  curled 

Over  our  heads  so  beautifully,  kills 
The  sun's  sharp  force.     Lo !  here  we  stand,  and  now 
Why,  what  a  glorious  sweep  of  land  below ! 

What  a  proud  scene  is  here !     We  stand  upon 
These  thunder-riven  and  ragged  capitals 

Winding  round  to  the  north  like  a  blue  zone 
Shutting  the  prospect  in.     And  softly  falls 


148  EAST    ROCK    IN    AUTUMN. 

The  Autumn  sunlight  down ;  and,  glimmering, 
Its  tips  with  golden  flame  each  faded  thing. 

There  spreads  the  forest  silent  as  the  dead ! 

There  rolls  the  ocean  solemn  and  sublime ! 
There  lays  the  city  in  the  distance  spread, 

So  distant,  that  the  ear  hears  not  the  chime 
Which,  from  the  steeples,  all  the  valley  fills, 
And  sometimes  rolls  out  here  to  these  far  hills ! 

And  over  us,  with  its  silent  canopy, 

The  bending  heaven  looks  down,  misty  and  dim ; 
Yet  pure,  as  is  the  light  of  a  blue  eye, 

And  stainless  as  the  robe  o'  the  cherubim ; 
For  not  a  single  cloud  breaks  on  the  eye 
Trail'd  here  or  there  away  through  the  far  sky. 

And  this  is  Autumn !  this  the  sad,  sad  year — 
The  year  to  wake  and  weep  in.     Well,  it  is 

The  time  to  weep  perhaps,  when  round  us  here 
Nature  is  weeping.     We  must  yield  our  bliss 

Bought  with  the  summer ;  and,  contentedly, 

Sigh  with  the  sighing.     We  must  learn  to  die. 

It  softens  our  proud  natures  — it  gives  back 
All  the  hearts  freshness.     We  go  out  upon 

The  paths  of  life,  forgetful  of  the  track 

Upon  which  the  gay  dawn  of  feeling  shone, 

And  we  grow  callous.     Men  so  vilely  plod  on, 

We  think  they're  only  fitted  to  be  trod  on. 


EAST    ROCK    IN    AUTUMN.  149 

And  so  we  move  along ;  and,  shutting  up 

The  Deity  that's  in  us,  we  but  strive 
To  crowd  a  ranker  poison  in  the  cup, 

Which  all  of  us  must  drink  from.     So  we  live 
Cursing  each  other.     The  poor  heart  by  this, 
Curses  itself,  and  runs  away  from  bliss. 

Yet  sorrow  call's  it  back.     It  sets  it  feeling, 
And  feeling  sets  it  free,  and  freedom  gives 

Kindness  once  more,  and  this  in  turn  unsealing 
Its  pent-up  wealth  of  happiness,  it  lives — 

Lives  in  the  love  of  others,  and  becomes 

Part  of  our  world,  and  feels  all  hearts  are  homes ! 

So  in  some  happy  valley,  a  sweet  spring 

Fetter' d  by  frosts,  and  pil'd  with  dead  leaves  hoar, 

Opens  its  long-shut  stores,  when,  blossoming, 
Comes  the  glad  sabbath  of  the  sun  once  more ; 

And,  welling  out  mid  leaves  and  the  faint  grass, 

Its  waters  breathe  forth  blessings  as  they  pass. 

And  blessings  breathes  the  heart  too.     The  earth's 
sadness 

Saddens  to  bless  it  only.     Welcoming 
This,  it  flings  off  its  own  most  moody  madness, 

And  goes  back  to  the  sweetness  of  life  spring ; 
And  such  the  season's  lesson.  Thank !  that  we 
May  thus  bring  life  from  death. — So  let  it  be. 


150 


THE   POWER  OF  TRUE  RELIGION. 


IF  thou  wouldst  lay  thee  in  the  grave  at  last, 
And  die  as  dies  the  good  man ;  if  thy  heart 
In  that  sad  hour,  would  feel  its  sympathies 
Sweeten'd,  and  soothed  by  solitary  thought ; 
Let  thy  whole  life  with  virtuous  actions  teem, 
With  virtue's  law  compare.     Thou  canst  not  live 
Too  pure,  or  o'er  thy  smallest  actions  keep 
Too  close  restraint.     Thou  canst  not  think  too  oft, 
There  is  a  never,  never  sleeping  eye 
Which  reads  thy  heart,  and  registers  thy  thoughts ; 
Thou  canst  not  say  too  oft — *  Teach  me  to  know 
My  end,  that  I  may  feel  how  frail  I  am' — 
Nor  canst  thou  lie  too  frequent  or  too  low, 
Before  that  cross  whereon  the  Saviour  hung — 
A  blameless  sacrifice.     It  is  his  fate, 
And  by  his  disobedience  invoked, 
That  man  shall  view  the  sepulchre  with  dread ; 
That,  when  he  looks  into  its  narrow  depths, 
Its  gloom — its  cheerlessness ;  and,  spurning  earth, 
Reflection  lifts  the  separating  veil 
Which  hides  the  future,  undissembled  awe 
Shall  grasp  his  soul,  and  will  not  be  dispell'd. 
Yet  in  this  chalice  hath  a  provident  God 


THE    POWER    OF    TRUE    RELIGION.  151 

Commingled  blessings.     He  hath  mark'd  a  path, 

And  promis'd  peace  to  him  who  walks  therein, 

And  safety  through  the  portals  of  the  grave ; 

And  though  thorns  weary,  and  temptation  press 

To  win  him  into  crime,  His  word  is  sure, 

And  it  will  save  him.     All  our  actions  take 

Their  hues  from  the  complexion  of  the  heart, 

As  landscapes  their  variety  from  light ; 

And  he  who  pays  his  conscience  due  regard, 

Is  virtue's  friend,  and  reaps  a  sure  reward. 

He  who  has  train'd  his  heart  with  liberal  care, 

Has  robb'd  the  sable  tyrant  of  his  crown, 

And  torn  the  robe  of  terror  from  his  breast ! 

Death  cannot  fright  him.     He  has  that  within, 

Which,  as  the  needle  to  the  Arctic,  kept 

By  law  immutable,  his  mind  upbears, 

And  fastens  where  earth's  influence  cannot  reach ! 

Let  loose  the  cohort  of  diseases — rend 

The  finest  shoots  of  passion  from  his  heart — 

Snap  every  tie  of  common  sympathy — 

And  let  the  adverse  and  remorseless  waves 

Of  disappointment  roar  against  his  breast — 

And  you  have  struck  some  rock  on  Neustria's  coast, 

With  but  the  heavings  of  a  summer's  sea ! 

His  spirit  knows  no  thralldom,  and  it  takes 

A  flight  sublime,  where  earth  hath  never  power ! 

But  there's  a  half-way  virtue  in  the  world, 
Which  is  the  world's  worst  enemy — its  bane, 
Its  withering  curse.     It  cheats  it  with  a  show, 

22 


152  THE    POWER    OF    TRUE    RELIGION. 

But  offers  naught  of  substance,  when  is  sought 

Its  peaceful  fruits.     It  suffers  men  in  power, 

To  let  the  young  aspirant  rise  or  fall 

As  chance  directs.     The  rich  man  fosters  it, 

And  for  the  favor,  it  shuts  up  his  ears 

Against  the  cry  of  virtuous  penury ; 

Or  bids  him  dole  out,  with  a  miserly  hand, 

A  farthing,  where  his  thousands  should  be  thrown, 

And  proffer'd  kindly.     The  lone  orphan's  cries, 

The  widow's  wail  in  impotence,  perchance 

Secure  a  few  unmeaning  tears,  but  not 

The  pity  which  administers  relief. 

Words  flow  as  freely  as  a  parrot  talks 

At  tales  of  suffering ;  and  tears  may  fall 

As  Niobe's ;  but  not  a  sacrifice 

The  heart  accepts,  nor  pleasure  is  forgone, 

Which  marks  the  principle  of  virtue  there, 

Or  such  as  finds  acceptance  in  the  skies. 

Who  pays  with  pity  all  my  debt  of  love, 

Who  weeps  for  me,  yet  never  sees  my  lack, 

Who  says  be  clothed,  yet  never  proffers  aught, 

He's  not  my  fellow,  nor  deserves  the  name ! 

A  feeble  virtue  is  a  vice  adorn'd 
In  virtue's  semblance.     'Tis  a  negative 
And  useless  quality.     It  exempts  from  wo 
Insufferable,  yet  grudges  perfect  bliss ; 
And  he  but  tricks  him  in  a  knave's  attire, 
Who  boasts  no  other.     He's  but  half  the  man, 
Who,  when  temptation  stares  him  in  the  face, 


THE    POWER    OF    TRUE    RELIGION.  153 

Assents,  yet  trembles  to  be  overcome. 
Such  men  do  things  by  halves,  and  never  do 
Aught  with  an  earnest  soul.     They  fool  away 
A  life,  in  which  the  good  and  evil  mix 
So  equal,  that  the  sum  is  neutralized ; 
And  Justice  on  their  sepulchres  inscribes 
No  sterner  truth,  than  when  she  writes — a  blank. 
Why  linger  then  betwixt  the  two  extremes, 
The  passive  puppet  of  each  circumstance  ? 
Why  pure  and  dev'lish  1  mortal  and  immortal  ? 
Too  good  for  earth,  and  yet  unfit  for  Heaven  ? 
Why  not  at  once  dispel  these  baneful  mists, 
Thrust  from  thy  path  the  arts  and  blandishments 
Which  win  to  wickedness  ;  and  rise  at  once, 
With  a  proud,  moral  freedom — until  thou 
Canst  stand  upon  the  stars,  and  see  to  Heaven ! 

And  sure  'twould  be  a  proud  accomplishment ! 
Look  as  it  may,  vice  is  not  honorable. 
It  will  not  stand  when  God  shall  ask  our  souls. 
But  virtue,  this  sweet  blossom  on  life's  waste, 
And  truth,  the  only  star  to  guide  us  through, 
These  make  men  godlike !  and  will  give  us  greatness 
'  When  man's  best  monuments  have  pass'd  away.' 
Ay !  would  we  be  immortal — be  we  good. 
The  good  man  never  dies.     His  actions  still 
Live  with  the  living ;  and  his  kindnesses, 
Extended  love,  and  calm  benevolence, 
Hold  with  the  sternness  of  a  prejudice, 
Upon  the  spirits  of  immortal  men ; 


154      THE  POWER  OF  TRUE  RELIGION. 

And  hence,  to  live  for  heaven,  are  twofold  reasons, 
Th'  immediate  goodness  of  good  deeds,  and  then 
When  the  cold  earth  encoffins  every  error, 
And  recollection  sanctifies  each  weakness, 
Those  unbegrudg'd  and  gentle  memories 
That  settle  round  our  graves,  like  the  bright  clouds 
That  do  pavilion  the  departing  sun ! 


155 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  EPISTLE.<19) 


WRITTEN    DURING    ILLNESS. 


MY  gentle  Charles,  Oh !  if  be  dear 
The  eye  that  sheds  for  us  the  tear, 
The  lips  whence  consolation  speaks, 
The  sympathy  that  from  them  breaks, 
When  on  the  heart  God's  hand  at  length 
Lies  like  a  mountain  in  its  strength,— 
Believe  me,  then,  this  heart  of  mine 
Hath  beat  with  more  than  love  to  thine ! 
— Here  have  I  sat  with  fainting  breath, 
My  heart  like  lead,  my  eye  like  death, 
The  tears  unbidden  gushing  forth 
Like  fountains  from  a  sterile  earth, 
And  turned  to  this  or  that  to  find 
Some  solace  for  an  aching  mind. 
I  sought  me  books.     The  learned  page 
My  palsied  sense  could  not  engage. 
The  Faery  tale,  the  history, 
Were  pictures  to  a  dead  man's  eye. 
Stories  I  read  I'd  read  before — 
Alas !  I  had  forgot  their  lore. 


156  FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE. 

The  sweet  romance,  the  poet's  art, 
They  touch'd  my  brain,  but  not  my  heart. 
I  gave  the  duty  up,  and  there 
Flung  down  the  volume  in  despair. 

I  sat  me  where  the  window  threw 
The  distant  landscape  into  view. 
The  snow  was  on  each  living  thing, 
The  birds  were  mute  nor  moved  a  wing, 
And  'neath  a  garment  clear  and  cold, 
Each  flower  slept  locked  in  frozen  mould. 
Here,  long-drawn  vales  in  silver  white, 
Glistening,  were  offered  to  the  sight. 
Where  ran  the  hedge,  or  old  stone  wall, 
The  icy  sheet  had  covered  all. 
And  all  along  the  rails  and  hung 
Downward,  the  icicles  were  strung, 
And,  as  the  flashing  sun  rose  bright, 
They  seemed  like  crystals  in  the  light. 
Where  wound  the  maple  colonnade, 
The  leafless  boughs  still  cast  a  shade — 
Curious,  for  on  the  crust  of  snow 
They  vipers  seem'd  toss'd  to  and  fro. 
Where  ran  the  rill  in  early  spring, 
Beneath  those  maples  glittering, 
Singing  and  dancing  as  the  wave 
Went  bickering  o'er  its  sandy  pave, 
And  catching  on  it,  shadows  dim 
Of  violets  along  its  brim, 
Or  lily  fair,  or  water-cress, 


FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE.  157 

That  stooped  its  cheek  for  a  caress — 

Now  o'er  that  gentle  stream  was  cast 

The  snowy  ridge  by  the  mountain  blast, 

Till  all  the  valley  level  seemed, 

Save  where  the  ice-bridge  brightly  gleamed. 

But  farther  down  the  valley  glen, 

That  brook  burst  up  to  light  again ; 

For  there,  pitch'd  from  its  dizzy  edge, 

The  wave  shot  down  a  rocky  ledge, 

And  foamed  and  thunder'd  through  the  brake, 

Until  its  waters  joined  the  lake. 

And  there,  no  Faery  in  her  cell 

Had  dreamed  or  fancied  half  as  well, 

Or  half  so  beautiful  a  thing, 

Or  given  it  tint  and  coloring, 

As  that  wild  brook  had  fancied  there, 

And  fashion'd  in  the  frosty  air. 

That  brook  had  flung  on  either  side, 

Its  fairy  frost-work  far  and  wide, 

Till  upward  'mid  the  rocks  appeared, 

A  fane  as  by  some  artist  reared, 

With  polished  shaft,  and  architrave, 

And  glittering  porch,  and  crystal  nave, 

And  gleaming,  as  the  light  shown  on, 

It  seemed  a  palace  of  the  sun. 

Where  spread  the  lake  all  sheeted  wide 

Sheer  to  the  ragged  cliff's  steep  side, 

Whose  hoary  summits  glitter'd  there, 

Like  giants  in  the  frosty  air, 

The  light  laugh  came  upon  the  wind, 


158  FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE. 

And  all  that  spake  *  the  vacant  mind.' 

There  like  a  young  and  mettled  horse, 

The  skillful  skater  plies  his  force. 

Anon  he  shoots,  and  wheels,  and  turns, 

As  if  the  element  he  spurns, 

As  if,  a  glorious  thing  of  air, 

His  own  proud  will  sustain'd  him  there. 

And  now  again  he  circles  neat, 

And  wheels  and  wheels  again  more  fleet, 

Till  far  across  the  lake  he  swings, 

While  loud  and  shrill  his  iron  rings. 

Such  scene  as  this  I  saw,  and  then 
I  turned  back  to  my  couch  again, 
And  streaming  tears  and  bitterer  griefs, 
Were  all  I  had  for  my  reliefs. 
— O,  sickness  !  what  a  burden  thou, 
To  man  and  man's  best  days  below ! 
He  hath  not  known  who  hath  not  felt 
Thy  power  upon  his  heart  to  melt, 
And  chase  those  airy  dreams  away 
Which  win  us  when  health's  pulses  play ; 
Ah !  no — he  cannot  know  the  gloom 
Which  settles  on  the  sick  man's  room. 
The  happiness  of  others  near, 
But  makes  his  wretchedness  appear ; 
The  laugh  upon  another's  tongue, 
Starts  him  as  if  a  serpent  stung  ; 
Upon  another's  lip,  the  jest 
Seems  like  a  dagger  in  his  breast ; 


FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE.  159 

And  childhood's  glee  and  innocence 
Strike  joyless  on  his  palsied  sense. 
So  was  it  then.     I  could  not  bear 
To  witness  joy,  or  joy  to  hear. 
Pd  rather  shut  me  from  the  sport 
Where  mirth  and  revel  held  their  court, 
And  back  into  myself  retire, 
And  feed  by  thought  the  wasting  fire. 

But  Heaven  was  merciful  to  one 
Who  dared  the  source  of  mercy  shun ; 
It  touched  my  heart,  relieved  my  pain, 
And  gave  me  back  to  life  again. 
It  gave  again  that  innate  sense 
Of  beauty,  and  its  recompense  ; 
And  Nature  to  her  suffering  child, 
Came  back,  the  beautiful,  the  wild ; 
And  feelings  soft  and  passions  sweet, 
Went  through  my  heart  at  every  beat. 
The  storms  grew  loud — 'twas  pleasure  now ! 
I  loved  to  stand  and  see  them  blow. 
See  far  upon  the  hills,  where  strong 
The  tempest  loud  career'd  along, 
The  stately  ash,  and  sturdy  oak, 
Bow  low  beneath  that  tempest's  stroke, 
While  to  my  ear  their  heavy  roar 
Seem'd  like  the  dash  on  ocean's  shore. 
O,  pleasing  now  the  poet's  art ! 
It  thrill'd  and  burn'd  along  my  heart. 
And  pleasing,  too,  the  school-boy's  page, 
23 


160  FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE. 

And  crabb'd  lore  of  a  crabbed  age. 
The  scales  had  fallen  from  my  eyes, 
I  loved  their  pleasant  histories. 
The  sounds  that  rose  at  evening  sent, 
That  trembled  on  an  instrument, 
With  tones  of  faery  laughter  blent — 
The  skater's  glee,  the  bounding  ball, 
The  shout  that  echoed  through  the  hall — 
Each,  all,  by  various  senses  given, 

Poured  through  my  heart  the  bliss  of  Heaven. 
#•*•*#•##•* 

I'll  rhyme  no  more.     My  thanks  are  due, 
My  sympathetic  friend,  to  you ; 
Whose  kindly  deeds  and  gentle  words 
Came  like  c  the  spring  notes  of  the  birds.' 
But  more  than  all  my  thanks  are  due, 
To  Him  who  reads  our  being  through ; 
Who,  though  he  spread  my  couch  of  pain, 
Now  gives  me  back  to  life  again. 


161 


NOVEMBER. 

"  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreampt  of  in  your  philosophy." 

Shukspeare. 

I  DO  not  like  these  mild  days  of  late  fall, 
There  beauty  saddens  me.     It  seems  more  like 
The  flush  that  sometimes  stains  the  cheek  of  death, 
Than  that  of  perfect  health ;  and  in  the  hues 
Of  the  few  faded  flowers,  and  in  the  notes 
Of  the  few  birds  left  to  us,  there  is  something 
Lone  as  requiem.     I  have  been  out 
Rambling  among  the  fields,  and  those  by-paths 
Where  the  young  grass  stays  longest,  and  the  shrubs 
Retain  the  spring's  fresh  hues.     There  is  a  spot 
Shut  in  among  the  hills,  and  there  comes  down 
So  soft  the  sun's  last  rays,  it  keeps  the  tints 
Long  on  the  buds  and  leaves.     A  spring  wells  out 
Fresh  from  the  mountain  side,  and,  overflowing, 
Its  snowy  runnel  leaps  from  rock  to  rock, 
Dancing  to  its  own  chime.     It  then  winds  round 
There  in  that  sunny  nook,  and  on  its  brink 
A  second  blow  of  flowers,  sometimes  a  third, 
Invite  the  loiterer.     Into  this  nook 
Frequent  I  go  out  in  these  after  days, 
And  take  my  pen  with  me,  or  take  my  books, 


162  NOVEMBER. 

Yet  though  the  flowers  are  pretty,  and  the  birds 
Sing  me  a  welcome,  I  as  often  find 
My  spirits  lone  as  glad. 

O !  what  is  this, 

Within  the  sensitive  mind,  that  thus  it  takes 
Always  the  semblance  of  the  outer  world  ? 
Gives  us  a  day  of  Spring,  the  mind  is  spring — 
Gives  us  the  Autumn,  the  sad  mind  is  there — 
And  every  sad  or  smiling  accident, 
A  sickness  has,  or  sunshine  for  the  heart. 
It  takes  the  hues  of  each  as  if  it  had 
A  sense  of  beauty  and  a  power  to  feel, 
Gifted  or  gotten  in  some  other  world  ! 

O !  the  wild  spirits  stiring  in  these  frames, 
Live  but  in  one  here  of  their  thousand  forms  ! 
For  what  are  these  strange  longings  in  us,  these 
Same  tastes  not  bought  but  born  with  us,  and  these 
Merry  and  madd'ning  sensibilities 
To  every  thing  around  us  1 — what  are  these 
But  powers  half  loosen'd,  once  as  free  as  heaven, 
And  waiting  for  their  godlike  state  again  ? 
Ay  !  we  are  creatures  fetter'd  here,  once  free. 
And  hence  we  move  about  in  this  same  scene, 
Mysterious  things  in  a  mysterious  world ; 
Gay  with  the  gay,  and  weeping  with  the  weeping, 
Trifling  or  wise,  as  suits  each  circumstance ; 
Till  death  creeps  o'er  us  like  a  drowsiness, 
Unbars  the  prison  doors  and — sets  us  free ! 


163 


THE  HEART. 


WRITTEN    IN    THE    ALBUM    OF    A    LADY    WHO    REQUESTED    OF    THE    AUTHOR 
SOME    VERSES    ON    THIS    SUBJECT. 


'A  lady  asks  the  minstrel's  rhyme." 

Halleck. 


A  LADY  ?     Well,  it  is  the  time 

When  words  are  sweet  as  sweet  bells  chime, 

If  Beauty  calls ; 
And  Love  keeps  sentry,  and  spouts  rhyme, 

In  Faery  halls. 

And  Love  peeps  o'er  the  Minstrel's  shoulder, 
Love  makes  the  Minstrel's  spirit  bolder, 
And  Love  sighs  that  he  is  not  older — 

Else  he,  apart, 
Would  weave  a  wreath  of  flowers,  and  fold  her 

Into  his  heart. 

And  Love  is  his  hey-day  dress, 
And  Love  has  many  a  soft  caress ; 
And  laughing  cheek,  and  glossy  tress, 

And  dimpled  hand, 
Glance  in  the  Minstrel's  eye,  and  bless 

His  dreaming  land. 


164  THE    HEART. 

And  softly  swells,  and  sweet  accords, 
The  harmony  that  earth  affords ; 
Glee,  life,  the  melody  of  birds, 

And  things  that  come 
Into  the  heart  like  childhood's  words, 

Or  thoughts  of  home. 

Then  should  the  Minstrel  mark  the  tone — 
The  look,  the  tongue  would  half  disown — 
The  heart,  when  its  disguise  is  thrown 

Freely  away ; 
And  chant  his  sweetest  fytte,  and  own 

His  lady's  sway. 

Soft  was  the  melody  it  gave, 
Soft  as  a  wind-dissever'd  wave, 
Soft  as  the  melody  the  brave 

Hear,  soothing,  deep — 
When  in  the  patriot's  earth-wept  grave, 

They  sink  to  sleep. 

Yet  softer  far  than  each  and  all, 
Than  note  of  bird  in  forest  hall, 
Than  angel  hymns  when  patriots  fall, 

Now  be  the  lay ; 
For  Love  must  answer  Beauty's  call, 

And  we  obey. 

And  yet  the  theme — THE  HEART — strange  thing 
And  worthy  of  a  nobler  string ! 


THE    HEART.  165 

Fickle  as  is  a  zephyr's  wing, 

The  lyre  should  be, 
That  sings  as  ever  lyre  should  sing, 

O,  heart !  of  thee. 

Thine  are  the  thoughts  that  come  and  bless ; 
Thine  are  the  feelings  that  distress ; 
Thine  are  the  passions  that  oppress, 

And  wake  our  fears ; 
Man's  curse,  and  yet  man's  happiness — 

His  joys  and  tears. 

And  wonderful  thy  power  that  flings 

O'er  all,  its  moods  and  colorings ! 

Turns  joy  to  gloom — gives  grief  the  wings 

Of  Fays,  that,  free, 
Revel  about  the  forest  springs, 

Or  haunted  tree ! 

The  light,  when  morn  and  music  come — 
The  bird,  within  its  forest  home — 
The  house-bee,  with  its  rolling  drum — 

Ay !  and  each  flower, 
And  winds,  and  woods,  and  waters  dumb — 

These,  by  thy  power, 

Become  distinctest  images, 
Link'd  to  the  mind  by  closest  ties ; 
A  treasure-house,  where,  gather'd,  lies 
Food  for  long  years ; 


166  THE    HEART. 

When  after  life  the  spirit  tries 
With  toils  and  tears. 

And  thus,  insensibly,  we  feel 
A  soothing  passion  o'er  us  steal, 
Binding  for  aye,  "  for  wo  and  weal" 

Our  souls  to  Nature ; 
Till,  like  a  mirror,  they  reveal 

Her  ev'ry  feature. 

And  then  when  comes  adversity, 

And  loves  grow  cold,  and  friendships  die, 

And  aches  the  heart,  and  cloud  the  eye 

Shadows  of  pain ; 
The  mind  can  on  itself  rely, 

And  live  again. 

And  thus  above  earth's  petty  things, 

Its  gorgeous  gauds,  and  glitterings, 

Its  camps,  and  courts,  and  crowds,  and  kings, 

Castle  and  hall ; 
The  mind  can  ruffle  its  proud  wings, 

And  scout  them  all ! 

Grandeur  and  greatness !     What  are  they  ? 
Playthings  for  fools :  the  king  to-day, 
To-morrow,  is  a  lump  of  clay ; 

And  yet,  elate, 
We  worry  through  life's  little  way — 

To  rot  in  state. 


THE    HEART.  167 

And  what  is  fame  ?     Ask  him  who  lies 
Where  cool  Cephissus  winding  hies ; 
Ask  him  who  shook  Rome's  destinies — 

Shatter'd  her  state ; 
There's  not  a  dungeon  wretch  that  dies, 

But  is  as  great. 

What's  glory  ?     Tis  the  rocket's  gleam ! 
The  school-boy's  rant,  the  scholar's  theme ! 
Glory !  'tis  manhood's  master-dream, 

The  trumpet's  bray ! 
A  light  that  tempts  upon  the  stream, 

To  lead  astray. 

What's  the  world's  pride  1     What  it  hath  been ! 
A  thing  that's  groveling  and  unclean ; 
A  spur  to  lust,  a  cloak  of  sin, 

Seemingly  fair ; 
Yet,  when  the  damp  grave  locks  us  in, 

How  mean  we  are ! 

What's  the  world's  love  ?     An  empty  boon. 
Witness  it,  bard  of  "  Bonny  doon," 
Witness  it,  he  with  "  Sandal  shoon," 

And  "Abbotsford"— 
A  light  burnt  to  its  socket,  soon 

A  quip,  a  word. 

And  yet  earth's  pomp  and  power  combined, 
Are  spells  that  witch  the  human  mind ; 
24 


168  THE    HEART. 

Make  it  an  alien  from  its  kind, 

And  things  that  bless ; 
Only  in  the  last  hour  to  find, 

Their — nothingness ! 

And  then  as  seeks  the  wounded  bird 
The  deepest  shades  to  moan  unheard, 
The  heart  turns  from  each  friendly  word, 

And  comfort  flies ; 
Feels  the  full  curse  of  "  hope  deferr'd" — 

Despairs,  and  dies. 

And  such  the  heart's  bad  passions.     Let 
Its  greener  laurels  flourish  yet ; 
Hope,  friendship — ne'er  let  earth  forget 

How  sweet  they  are ; 
For  peace  and  the  poor  heart  are  met, 

When  love  is  there. 

Love !  'tis  earth's  holiest  principle ; 

From  every  thing  we  catch  its  spell ; 

But  more,  from  the  sweet  thoughts  that  dwell 

In  woman's  breast ; 
Friendship  and  faith  immutable, 

By  her  possess'd ! 

Woman !  'tis  here  truth  has  its  birth ; 
The  rainbow  round  the  social  hearth ; 
Preserver,  in  its  Eden-worth, 

— From  pride  apart — 
That  happiest,  wretchedest  thing  of  earth, 

The  human  heart ! 


169 


THE    LOWLY   HEART'S    AMBITION. 


I  DO  not  ask  this  world  should  give  me  fame, 
I  ask  not  for  its  rank  breath  of  stern  pride ; 

I  rather  crave  of  it  this  humbler  name — 

And  one  methinks  that  should  not  be  denied — 

That  when  my  eyes  have  closed  upon  this  scene, 

Some  hearts  shall  holier  be,  that  I  have  been. 

To  give  the  mind  to  tasks,  to  let  the  heart 
Burn  with  fierce  longings,  bid  the  soul  aspire 

To  tread  the  world's  proud  stage,  to  bear  a  part 
In  its  great  tumult — others  this  may  fire ; 

And  it  is  well  perhaps  it  should  be  so — 

/  rather  in  earth's  lowlier  walks  would  go. 

I  rather  seek  the  humbler  path,  that  winds 
The  poor  man's  door  along.     I  rather  go 

Where  love  in  gentler  scenes  a  calm  rest  finds, 
And  earth's  tumultuous  passions  never  flow ; 

Where  all  lips  speak  me  welcome  as  I  come, 

And  all  hearts  open  to  me  like  a  home. 

And  children  lisp  my  name,  and  warm  words  swell 
From  many  a  pious  soul  that  I  have  bless'd ; 


170  THE     LOWLY    HEART'S    AMBITION. 

And  every  one  has  something  kind  to  tell, 

Of  me,  the  sharer  of  the  heart  distress'd ; 
Because  they  feel — so  well  my  love  is  known — 
That  they  can  pour  their  hearts  into  my  own. 

And  I  would  have  my  own  home  bless'd  of  God, 
Among  those  good,  and  humble  ones,  and  poor ; 

A  kind  heart  in't  to  bless  me  when  abroad, 
And  waiting  eyes  to  greet  me  at  the  door ; 

And  I  would  wear  my  life  out — willingly — 

Asking  no  higher  good  than  these  may  be. 

Give  me  a  lot  like  this,  and  I  will  let 

The  world's  fame,  and  its  wealth,  go  proudly  by  ; 
The  one — may  gild  the  brow  where  thorns  are  set, 

The  other — think  to  buy  what  none  may  buy ; 
The  boon  I  crave  shall  weave  around  my  name 
A  greener  wreath  that  all  earth's  wealth  or  fame  ! 


171 


THE   ISLAND. 

FROM    THE    FAERY    ISLAM),    AN     l'M'i;j{  MS1IED    POEM. 

THAT  Isle — so  beautiful  to  view ! 

No  poet's  fancy  ever  drew ; 

He  had  not  dreamed  of  such  a  thing, 

With  all  the  beauty  he  could  bring. 

It  lay  upon  the  open  sea, 

It  lay  beneath  the  stars  and  sun ; 

A  thing,  too  beautiful  to  be ! 

A  jewel,  cast  that  sea  upon ! 
The  winds  came  upward  to  the  beach — 

The  waves  came  rolling  up  the  sand ; 
Then  backward  with  a  gentle  reach, 

Now  forward  to  the  land, 

Sparkling  and  beautiful — tossing  there, 

Then  vanishing  into  the  air. 
The  winds  came  upward  to  the  beach — 

The  waves  came  upward  in  a  curl — 
Then  far  along  the  shore's  slope  reach, 

There  ran  a  line  of  pearl. 
And  shells  were  there  of  every  hue, 

From  snowy  white,  to  burning  gold ; 
The  Jasper,  and  the  Tyrian  blue, 

The  sardonyx  and  emerald ; 

And  o'er  them  as  the  soft  winds  crept, 


172  THE    ISLAND. 

A  melody  from  each  was  swept — 

For  melody  within  each  slept, 
Harmoniously  blended ; 

And  never,  till  the  winds  gave  out, 

And  ceased  the  surf  its  tiny  shout, 
That  melody  was  ended : 

Morn,  noon,  and  eve,  was  heard  to  be 

The  music  of  those  shells  and  sea. 
The  winds  went  upward  from  the  deep — 

The  winds  went  up  across  the  sand — 
And  never  did  the  sea  winds  sweep 

Over  a  lovelier  land. 
The  northern  seas,  the  southern  shores, 

The  eastern,  and  the  western  isles, 
Had  rifled  all  their  sweets  and  stores, 

To  deck  this  lovely  place  with  smiles : 
And  mounts  were  here,  and  tipp'd  with  green, 

And  kindled  by  the  glowing  sun ; 
And  vales  were  here,  and  stretch'd  between, 

Where  waters  frolick'd  in  their  fun : 
And  goats  were  feeding  in  the  light, 

And  birds  were  in  the  green-wood  halls ; 
And,  echoing  o'er  each  hilly  height, 

Was  heard  the  dash  of  waterfalls. 
O !  all  was  beauty,  bliss,  and  sound — 
A  Sabbath  sweetness  reigned  around ; 
All  was  delight,  for  every  thing 
Was  robed  in  loveliness  and  spring ; 
Color  and  fragrance,  fruit  and  flower, 
Were  here  within  this  Island  Bower ! 


173 


«0,   WHO  HAS  NOT  FELT,"   &c. 


O !  WHO  has  not  felt  in  this  strange  world  of  ours, 
When  his  spirit  has  sigh'd  for  its  last  long  release, 

The  chirp  of  the  birds,  or  the  breath  of  the  flowers, 
Stealing  over  that  spirit  to  win  it  to  peace  ? 

O !  who  has  not  felt  that  to  gaze  on  the  sky, 

When  the  morning  came  in  like  a  smile  from  above, 

Was  to  fling  all  his  moments  of  bitterness  by, 
And  deem  life  one  revel  of  joy  and  of  love  ? 

Or  who  has  not  felt  at  the  shutting  of  day, 

When  the  eve  steals  apace  like  a  bride  to  her  rest, 

The  cloud  of  despondency  fading  away, 

And  the  garment  of  heaviness  lift  from  his  breast  ? 

Or  who  has  gone  forth  when  from  all  the  wide  heaven, 
The  moon  pour'd  her  flame  in  one  flood  o'er  the  earth, 

But  has  sprung  on  the  wing  of  his  thought,  and  been 

driven 
Away  to  those  fields  where  that  flame  has  its  birth  ? 

And  has  sported  in  bliss  there  with  star  after  star, 
And  caught  the  wild  chant  as  each  sphere  roll'd  along ; 


174  O,    WHO    HAS    NOT    FELT. 

Till  his  soul,  orbed  with  light,  like  those  spheres  seen 

afar, 
Has  join'd  in  their  rapturous  triumph  and  song  ? 

O !  may  we  not  walk  forth  on  this  beautiful  earth, 
But  the  heart  will  leap  wildly  these  bright  scenes 
among ; 

And  we  may  not  go  mourning,  and  frown  upon  mirth, 
When  so  much  all  around  us  is  glory  and  song ! 

We  may  gaze,  and  our  vision  should  never  be  dim ; 

We  may  laugh  off  these  clouds  round  our  pathways 

now  curl'd ; 
And  while  quaffing  Life's  cup  as  it  foams  to  the  brim, 

We  may  bless  him  who  gave  us  this  beautiful  world ! 


175 


THE   FOUNTAIN. 


WHAT  is  there  in  a  fountain  clear, 
What  is  there  in  a  song — 

That  I  should  sit  and  ponder  here, 
And  sit  and  ponder  long  1 

The  wave  wells  beautiful,  'tis  true, 
And  sparkles  in  the  sun ; 

But  that's  what  other  fountains  do, 
And  sparkle  as  they  run. 

The  wave  wells  beautifully,  and 

Sings  as  it  pours  along ; 
But  every  fountain  of  the  land, 

Runs,  murmuring  a  song. 

Then  what  is  it  that  keeps  me  here, 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink  ? 

What  is  it  that,  a  worshiper, 
I  sit  me  here  and  think  ? 

The  robin  whistles  in  the  sky, 
The  squirrel's  in  the  tree ; 

Yet  here  I  sit  me  moodily, 
My  gun  upon  my  knee. 
25 


176  THE    FOUNTAIN. 

And  sporting  round  the  openings 

Of  yonder  forest  green, 
The  golden  light  of  glancing  wings 

At  intervals  is  seen. 

And  forms  and  things  to  catch  the  eye, 
And  sounds  of  grove  and  grot ; 

They  pass  uninterruptedly — 
They  move,  yet  move  me  not. 

My  hound,  besides,  the  fit  has  caught ; 

For,  looking  in  my  face, 
He  sees  his  master  thinks  of  nought 

So  little  as  the  chase. 

Then  what  is  it  that  keeps  me  here 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink  ? 
Why  is  it  that,  a  worshiper, 

I  sit  me  here  and  think  1 

The  wave  runs  round,  the  wave  runs  bright, 

The  wave  runs  dancing  free, 
As  if  it  took  a  strange  delight 

A  dancing  wave  to  be. 

And  down  the  vale  it  goes,  a  brook, 

Over  a  golden  pave ; 
And  from  the  brink  the  cresses  look, 

And  dally  with  the  wave. 


THE    FOUNTAIN.  177 

And  every  hue  of  leaf  and  sky, 
And  forms  and  things  are  caught ; 

Which  dance,  and  glance,  and  glitter  by, 
As  rapid  as  a  thought. 

Then  what  is  it  that  keeps  me  here 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink  ? 
What  is  it  that,  a  worshiper, 

I  sit  me  here  and  think  1 

And  now  the  sun  drops  down  the  west, 

And  Hesper  shines  afar ; 
When  lo !  upon  the  fountain's  breast, 

Sparkles — a  mimic  star ! 

And  soft  the  reflex,  glimmering  out, 

Is  cut  a  thousand  ways, 
As  there  the  bubbles  whirl  about, 

And  revel  in  the  blaze. 

And  far  along  the  sky  of  even, 

The  clouds,  in  golden  dress, 
Have  painted  here  a  little  heaven 

With  added  loveliness — 

With  every  light  and  shade  so  true 

And  exquisitely  wrought, 
As  fancy  never,  never  drew, 

As  fancy  never  taught. 


178  THE    FOUNTAIN. 

Then  what  is  it  that  keeps  me  here 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink  ? 

Why  is  it  that,  a  worshiper, 
I  sit  me  here  and  think  1 

And  now  the  woods  and  sky  are  one- 
And,  up  the  orient  driven, 

The  crescent  moon  hangs  off  upon 
The  canopy  of  heaven. 

And  round  her  come  a  troop  of  stars, 
And  round  her  comes  the  night ; 

And  o'er  her  face  the  clouds  in  bars, 
Are  braided  by  the  light. 

And  on  her  beams  the  Oreads  sail 

And  revel  as  they  go, 
And  little  warriors  clad  in  mail, 

And  Gnomes — a  faery  show ! 

And  every  other  combination 

With  poetry  agreeing, 
That  nonsense  and  imagination 

E'er  conjured  into  being. 

Odd  fancies !  yet,  they  came  to  me 

A  solitary  child ; 
A  lover  of  the  waters  free, 

A  lover  of  the  wild ! 


THE    FOUNTAIN.  179 

And  here  I  were  a  traitor  vile, 

If — though  I  mix  with  men — 
I  could  not  lose  the  man  awhile, 

And  play  the  boy  again. 

Then  ask  you,  why  I  sit  me  here, 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink  ? 
And  ask  you  why,  a  worshiper, 

I  sit  me  here  and  think  ? 


180 


«O!  THE  ROSE  OF  ALL  FLOWERS"   &c. 


O !  THE  rose  of  all  flowers  is  the  sweetest  and  best, 
'Tis  the  one  that  I  love  when  my  heart  feels  oppress'd ; 
'Tis  the  one  I  first  loved,  when  my  feelings  went  forth 
To  revel  abroad  mid  the  sunshine  of  earth  ! 

When  the  snow  leaves  the  land,  and  the  fresh  gales 

appear, 

'Tis  the  brightest  that  springs  on  the  brow  of  the  year; 
And  its  showers  of  white  blossoms  a  sweetness  declare, 
Like  the  soft  cheek  of  beauty  when  first  love  is  there. 

And  at  morning  and  evening  we  find  it  the  same, 
Its  beauty  still  bright  as  the  stars  are  we  name ; 
The  summer  too  claims  it  when  her  bowers  are  deserted, 
It  blooms  when  the  winds  sing  of  summer  departed. 

'Tis  the  emblem  of  passion  the  purest  and  sweetest, 
Though  unlike  that  passion  so  often  the  fleetest ; 
Its  bud  is  the  token  of  bliss  from  above, 
Its  blossom  the  union  of  life  and  of  love. 

Then  give  me  the  rose  as  it  comes  to  us  here ! 
'Tis  the  signet  of  power,  for  it  circles  the  year ! 
In  our  joys  and  our  sorrows  the  first  shall  it  be — 
Ay !  the  queen  of  the  garden  is  the  first  flower  with  me. 


181 


THE  INDIAN   SUMMER. 

A    DESCRIPTIVE    SKETCH. 

THE  Indian  Summer  has  come  again, 

With  its  mellow  fruits  and  its  ripened  grain ; 

The  sun  pours  round  on  the  hazy  scene, 

His  rays  half  shorn  of  their  golden  sheen ; 

And  the  birds  in  the  thicks  seem  too  sad  to  sing, 

And  sad  is  the  sound  of  the  wild  wind's  wing. 

And  hither  and  thither  an  ash  leaf  sear, 

Goes  slowly  off  through  the  atmosphere ; 

And  there  may  be  heard,  when  the  breeze  steals  out, 

The  hum  of  the  bee  and  the  torrent's  shout ; 

And  the  caw  of  the  crow  wakes  the  solitudes, 

And  the  hill  fox  barks  in  the  faded  woods. 

And  over  the  hill  to  his  patch  of  grain, 

The  reaper  goes  with  his  empty  wain ; 

His  lash  resounds,  his  wagon  rings, 

The  steep  re-echoes  the  catch  he  sings ; 

And  the  long  drawn  vales  seem  to  take  the  strain, 

And  send  it  up  the  hill  again. 

And  here  where  late  the  dog-wood  threw 
Its  berries  forth  of  a  crimson  hue ; 


182  THE    INDIAN    SUMMER. 

And  deep  in  the  dell  where  the  birch  was  seen, 
With  its  fragrant  bark  and  tassels  green ; 
The  colors  are  gone,  the  leaves  are  gray — 
They  fall,  and  are  swept  by  the  brook  away. 

The  daisy  low  on  the  bank  is  lying, 
The  leaves  of  the  briar  are  dead  and  dying ; 
The  lea  has  never  a  blossom  blue, 
Where  late  the  rose  and  violet  grew ; 
And  life  is  passing  from  glade  and  glen — 
The  Indian  Summer  has  come  again. 


183 


BESSIE   LEE. 

11  The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door." 

Wordsworth. 

A  SIMPLE  hearted  cottager — 
Sweet  Bessie,  Bessie  Lee ; 

My  tears  will  often  stream  for  her — 
Sweet  Bessie,  Bessie  Lee. 

A  little  maiden  twelve  years  old, 

A  maiden  fair  and  free ; 
And  one  with  limbs  of  such  a  mould 

As  you  will  scarcely  see. 

An  eye  with  softest  meanings  glowing, 

Her  face  a  faery  one ; 
Her  locks,  a  little  torrent  flowing 

In  the  bright  evening  sun. 

Beside  her  mother's  door  there  were 
Blossoms  that  met  the  sun ; 

But  of  the  flowers  and  blossoms  there, 
She  was  the  sweetest  one. 

The  bird  that  whistled  to  the  dawn 
As  if  from  Heaven  sent, 
26 


184  BESSIE    LEE. 

With  its  first  carol  on  the  lawn 
Was  not  more  innocent. 

And  of  the  merry  winds  that  blew 
The  flowers  and  leaves  about, 

Freer  across  the  lawn  she  flew, 
And  freer  was  her  shout. 

It  sounded  like  an  instrument, 

So  gentle  its  control ; 
One  of  those  gentle  tones,  that  went 

Into  your  very  soul. 

She  grew  from  childhood  up  to  youth, 
And  in  her  heart  the  springs 

Of  loveliness  and  peace  and  truth 
And  sweet  imaginings. 

And  every  thing  she  saw  she  loved, 
And  every  thing  she  heard ; 

She  had  not  power  to  look  unmoved, 
Upon  a  bee,  or  bird. 

At  last,  lured  to  that  merry  land 
Where  faery  Fancy  stalks, 

She  learned  to  love  the  mountains,  and 
The  solitary  walks. 

And  every  breeze  upon  the  hill, 
And  every  floweret  fair ; 


BESSIE    LEE.  185 

The  waters  still,  the  little  rill 

That  burr'd  and  bicker'd  there. 

\ 

And  instant  in  her  heart,  there  gushed 

A  thousand  feelings  sweet, 
Which  through  her  little  bosom  rushed 

At  each  successive  beat. 

And  thus  that  heart  becoming  full — 

(Her  mind  a  mansion  rare 
For  every  thing  that's  beautiful 

In  earth  and  sea  and  air) 

It  grew  into  a  passion,  fed 

By  lakes  and  streams  and  rills ; 
Until  it  almost  might  be  said 

She  dwelt  among  the  hills. 

For  there  whole  summer  days  she  spent 

In  scenes  but  seldom  trod ; 
Alone  beneath  the  firmament, 

The  happiest  thing  of  God ! 

She  loved  to  walk  the  crags,  and  look 

Into  the  gulf  below ; 
She  loved  to  walk  the  crags,  when  shook 

The  tall  pines  to  and  fro. 

And  when  the  storm  was  high  in  heaven, 
And  loud  along  the  hill 


186  BESSIE    LEE. 

The  black  embattled  clouds  were  driven, 
She  wander'd,  wander'd  still. 

We  miss'd  her  from  the  gate  one  morn : 
The  hunter's  looked ;  and  lo ! 

Beneath  the  crags,  and  crush'd  and  torn, 
She  lay — a  sight  of  wo ! 

Poor  Bessie.     Now  no  home  is  there 
Where  hers  was  wont  to  be ; 

Yet  none  forgets  that  maiden  fair, 
Sweet  Bessie,  Bessie  Lee. 


187 


"IN  THE  MORNING  OF  LIFE,"  &c. 


IN  the  morning  of  life  when  our  fond  fancy  lingers 
O'er  every  thing  beautiful  life  can  supply  ; 

The  future  is  pictur'd  by  Hope's  faery  fingers, 

Like  the  meteor- star's  track,  where  it  flames  on  the 
sky! 

And  we  go  forth  and  drink  of  the  beauty  and  splendor 
Which  comes  to  the  soul  from  each  thing  that  we  see ; 

And  we  blend  with  their  forms  all  those  thoughts  pure 

and  tender, 
Which  the  young  heart  alone  feels  wherever  it  be. 

But  when  added  years  come  to  tell  us  of  sorrow, 
And  gathering  cares  thicken  wild  round  our  way ; 

Oh  !  where  is  the  dream  of  that  happy  to-morrow, 
Which  once  made  so  blissful  the  thoughts  of  to-day ! 

And  where  is  that  young  heart  which  once  leapt  so 

lightly, 

The  eye  glancing  wild  in  its  innocent  mirth  ? 
And  where  all  those  thoughts,  once  so  tender  and 

sprightly, 
So  lavishly  pour'd  all  abroad  on  the  earth  ? 


188  IN    THE    MORNING    OF    LIFE. 

They  are  gone — yet  it  teaches  one  beautiful  truth  to  us. 

And  the  wise  heart  will  take  that  same  truth  to  its 

home ; 
Till  it  lives  there  as  bright  as  was  ever  our  youth  to  us, 

Our  guide  through  the  few  faded  moments  to  come. 

'Tis  to  do  what  we  can  while   these  moments  are 
speeding, 

To  scatter  truth — life !  like  an  ocean  of  flame ; 
And  to  leave  our  example  to  millions  succeeding, 

To  write  their  names  high  on  the  scroll  of  true  fame ! 


189 


ON  VISITING  HOME. 


FROM  busied  life  and  expectations  vain, 
How  turns  the  heart  to  childhood's  haunts  again ! 
And  while  round  each  creative  fancy  strays, 
With  all  the  fervor  of  our  boyhood's  days, 
Off  from  the  breast  the  cares  of  manhood  roll, 
And  leave  the  gentler  passions  of  the  soul. 
The  shaven  lawn,  the  smooth-roll'd  gravel  walk, 
The  shelter'd  bower,  the  evening's  social  talk, 
The  small  green  brier  round  the  white  porch  flung, 
The  nursery  elm,  the  dizzy  swing  there  hung, 
The  orchard  path,  the  walk  along  the  hill, 
The  long-drawn  vale,  the  brook  that  wound  at  will, 
The  river's  marge,  the  shade  that  rock'd  mid  air, 
The  shelter'd  lake,  the  playful  zephyr  there- 
Each,  as  fond  memory  bids  me  now  explore, 
Gives  to  the  heart  one  pulse  of  pleasure  more. 

Stretch'd  at  my  ease  once  more  beneath  these  shades, 
While  mournful  bliss  my  mourning  heart  pervades, 
And  winds  as  wont  float  softly  o'er  the  ground, 
Dispensing  coolness  as  they  play  around, 
From  vale  to  hill,  from  hill  to  mountain  high, 
Sweet  Recollection  flings  her  pensive  eye. 


190  ON    VISITING    HOME. 

How  memory,  lingering  fondly,  loves  to  trace, 
In  every  nook  some  old  familiar  face ; 
What  magic  light  around  each  spot  we  fling, 
What  sweet  sensations  from  each  object  spring ! 
Beneath  this  hoary  elm  how  oft  at  play, 
Our  childish  sports  have  wearied  out  the  day, 
Where  jest,  and  song,  and  happy  laugh  went  round, 
And  little  footsteps  tripp'd  along  the  ground ! 
Yon  sun -dyed  stream,  yon  small  and  tinkling  rill, 
Whose  falling  waters  turned  my  mimic  mill, 
Yon  sloping  bank,  yon  alley  fringed  with  flowers, 
Where  festive  mirth  ran  gay  her  frolic  hours, 
And  yonder  hedge  and  gate  still  swinging  near — 
How  natural  rings  its  jar  upon  the  ear ! 

Turn  now  to  where  yon  pile  of  proud  rocks  run, 
And  earth  and  sky  seem  mingled  into  one ; 
Where  the  blue  arch  of  heaven  comes  almost  down, 
And  rest's  its  pillars  on  the  mountain's  crown ; 
And  as  the  eye  looks  forth  with  mild  surprise, 
How  many  thousand  thousand  memories  rise ! 
This  smiling  scene  to  love  and  feeling  dear, 
How  oft  its  pleasures  drew  my  footsetps  near ; 
How  oft  when  wearied  with  the  holiday, 
Up  the  rough  headland  would  I  wind  my  way, 
Where  with  full  heart  my  youthful  eyes  were  cast, 
Round  the  wild  hills  that  swept  in  circles  vast, 
Or  far  below  to  vale  and  valley  sweet, 
Spread  like  a  faery  picture  at  my  feet ! 
— First  touch'd  at  morn,  and  last  at  shut  of  even, 


ON    VISITING    HOME.  191 

High  in  the  north  Mount  Tom  swells  vast  to  heaven, 

Round  whose  bold  brow  the  wintry  storm  first  plays, 

And  last  desolves  in  summer's  ardent  rays. 

Around  him  mountains  of  etherial  hue, 

But  lesser  far,  are  lifted  into  view, 

And  barren  headlands  here  and  there  arise, 

And  forests  frown,  and  woods  assault  the  skies. 

Far  to  the  west  the  gentler  mountains  sweep, 

On  whose  hush'd  breasts  the  winds  a  sabbath  keep, 

Save  where  in  light  appears  the  golden  grain, 

Roll'd  into  waves  as  rolls  the  waving  main. 

While  on  the  south  the  broken  hills  survey, 

Through  whose  rough  gap  the  river  winds  away, 

Which,  rolling  on,  in  all  its  winding  maze 

Catches  the  sun  in  one  broad  burning  blaze ! 

That  gentle  stream — lo !  where  its  waters  come, 
Now  moving  slow,  now  bursting  into  foam, 
One  moment  playful  as  a  child  at  play, 
And  next  like  manhood  fretting  life  away, 
See,  where  it  turns  and  now  down  yon  green  glade, 
Spreads  its  broad  breast  beneath  the  broader  shade. 
Where  now  the  hearts  with  mine  oft  gather'd  there, 
When  the  hot  summer  steam'd  through  all  the  air, 
Or  when  the  reaper's  song  rose  from  the  hill, 
What  time  the  ripe  grain  nodded  at  its  fill ! 
Hush'd  all  their  mirth,  and  still'd  those  bosoms  warm, 
Scatter'd  like  drifted  leaves  before  the  Autumn  storm. 
Yet  memory  paints  them,  and,  with  pencil  true, 
Lifts  those  wild  laughing  pictures  into  view ; 

27 


192  ON    VISITING    HOME. 

Young  hearts  are  there  and  link'd  to  mine  by  ties, 
As  hearts  may  but  once  lock  this  side  the  skies ; 
Lives  the  bright  eye  again  with  its  first  hue, 
And  faith  is  still  as  fond,  and  hands  as  true ; 
And  rings  the  happy  laugh,  and  tones  are  heard, 
Sweeter  than  Spring's  first  breath,  or  evening's  bird. 
The  school  as  then  pours  out  its  jovial  rout, 
And  here  again  we  rush  with  roar  and  shout, 
And  through  the  long,  long  summer  noons  we  stay, 
Sport  with  the  wave,  and  laugh  the  time  away. 

Scene  of  past  being,  all  unmix'd  with  pain, 
Home  of  the  heart,  and  we  are  met  again ; 
Met,  as  I  stand  among  these  ruins  gray, 
Forgetful  dreaming  the  lone  hours  away ; 
Met,  as  I  think  of  youthful  follies  done, 
And  wish  those  follies  were  but  just  begun ; 
Met,  as  each  tell-tale  object  strikes  my  eye, 
The  record  of  some  boyish  history. 
Oh !  we  may  claim  it  if  we  choose  to  claim, 
That  childhood's  pleasures  are  but  such  in  name ; 
And  we  may  magnify  the  bliss  we  find, 
In  all  the  pleasures  of  the  manlier  mind ; 
But  every  tear  which  here  falls  from  the  eye, 
Writes  nonsense  on  our  poor  philosophy. 
When  we  remember  those  light  cares  we  knew, 
And  the  sweet  health  which  with  each  morn  we  drew, 
The  heart  that  leapt  with  pulses  ever  young, 
And  the  glad  notes  that  trembled  on  the  tongue, 
The  kindness  felt  for  all  earth's  breathing  things, 


ON    VISITING    HOME.  193 

And  the  pure  joy  which  from  such  feeling  spring 
We  laugh  to  scorn  the  happiness  which  now, 
Thrills  the  dull'd  brain,  or  shades  the  alter'd  brow. 

Scene  of  past  being,  scenes  I  loved  so  well, 
Home  of  the  heart,  again  a  long  farewell ! 


194 


SYMPATHY  WITH  THE  WORLD. 


HE  wrongs  it — ay !  his  breast  is  steel — 
Who  has,  while  in  this  world,  no  heart, 

To  feel  the  miseries  men  feel, 

And  make  their  griefs  of  his  a  part ! 

Why  have  we  minds,  or  soul,  or  sense  ? 

Why  drops  the  tear  in  reason's  spite  ? 
Why  aches  the  heart  with  grief  intense  ? 

And  why  these  groans  by  morning's  light  ? 

The  heart  is  made  to  feel — and  he 

Curses  himself,  who,  shrouding  up 
His  capabilities,  lives  free, 

And  scorns  to  taste  the  bitter  cup. 

i 

Look  out  upon  the  scene,  this  earth ! 

Its  bright,  and  green,  and  glorious  things ; 
Hark !  how  this  little  rill  speaks  forth, 

And  look  you  where  yon  wood -bird  sings ! 

The  green  bowers  budding  to  the  sun, 

The  soft  green  sward  that  hails  the  spring ; 

The  whispering  leaves  those  boughs  upon, 
The  titter  of  the  wild  wind's  wing ! 


SYMPATHY    WITH    THE    WORLD.  195 

And  look  you  where  the  wild  flowers  fringe 
Yon  mighty  sweep  of  old  gray  wall, 

Down  whose  rough  face  of  every  tinge 
Thick  vines  and  mant'ling  tresses  fall ! 

And  hark  you  to  the  house-wife  bee, 
That  sings  from  that  same  precipice ; 

There's  music  in  her  murmur  free, 
There's  wisdom  in  those  low  replies ! 

And  all  these  have  a  voice — they  tell 
Of  what  earth's  nobler  life  should  be ; 

Voices !  from  every  side  they  swell — 
The  sweet  notes  of  humanity  ! 

And  oh !  to  gaze  on  man,  and  see 
The  many  griefs  that  on  him  press ; 

His  self-inflicted  misery — 

And  those  from  others'  selfishness ! 

And  then  to  see  earth's  helpless  ones, 
Their  hands  stretch'd  out  to  us,  and  eyes 

Streaming  with  tears,  and  hear  their  groans, 
And  number  o'er  their  miseries ! 

Sure !  if  they  move  us  not — why  then 

Our  hearts  are  dead,  our  breasts  are  stone ; 

And  in  a  world  of  breathing  men, 
We  live  unblest,  despised,  alone. 


196  SYMPATHY    WITH    THE    WORLD. 

Grant  me,  oh,  God  of  truth  !  a  heart, 
To  feel  the  woes  that  crush  men  down ; 

Let  every  other  joy  depart, 

But  spare  me  this,  the  good  man's  crown ! 

Be  there  some  sympathetic  cord, 
That  links  my  being  to  the  rest ; 

That  when  one  heart  of  all  is  stirr'd, 

Mine  may  be  waked — and,  waking,  blest ! 


197 


SHADOWS 


I  HAD  a  very  funny  dream 

One  night  beneath  the  whispering  tree ; 
There  was  a  tree,  there  was  a  stream — 

And  fair  as  moon  could  be, 
The  moon  her  solitary  beam 

Pour'd  on  that  brook  and  tree. 

I  saw  a  young  and  bright-eyed  boy, 

And  little  maiden  playing ; 
She  was  the  loveliest  thing — a  toy, 

A  bee,  or  bird,  a  Maying ; 
A  feeling  nothing  could  destroy, 

Kept  those  two  children  playing. 

They  rambled  long,  they  rambled  wide, 
There  mid  green  fields  and  flowers ; 

That  boy  was  ever  at  her  side, 
And  so  they  pass'd  the  hours ; 

I  heard  him  call  the  maiden,  bride, 
There  mid  green  fields  and  flowers. 

And  she  was  pleased  to  be  his  bride, 
And  in  his  face  she  gazed ; 


198 


SHADOWS. 

Half  bashfully,  and  half  in  pride, 

As  at  herself  amazed ; 
Yet  still  she  clung  unto  his  side, 

And  in  his  face  she  gazed. 

And  then  I  thought  there  was  a  wail — 

The  moon  still  lent  its  ray ; 
But  it  was  tremulous  and  pale, 

And  changeful  seem'd  and  gray ; 
There  was  a  churchyard  in  a  vale — 

The  moon  still  lent  its  ray. 

And  there  beneath  the  cold  wan  light 

Clasping  the  ivyed  stone, 
An  aged  man,  with  weeds  bedight, 

Stood  motionless  and  lone — 
They  say  that  old  man's  heart,  once  light, 

Lay  buried  'neath  that  stone* 


199 


GREEK  CHANT  IN  A  LAND  OF  FREEDOM. 


AY  !  give  me  back  my  fathers'  land, 

Though  'tis  a  land  of  slaves ! 
The  skies  are  blue,  the  airs  are  bland, 

That  deck  my  fathers'  graves ! 
I  love,  America,  thy  shore — 

I  love  thy  valiant  sons ; 
But  yet,  I  love  fair  Grecia  more, 

And  Grecia's  godlike  ones ! 

I  long  to  see  her  hills  again, 

And  tread  that  soil  once  more ; 
I  long  to  see  that  brave  old  main 

That  sweeps  the  Attic  shore ; 
And  Salamis,  and  ^gina — 

Names  golden  in  their  glory ! 
And  other  spots  as  proud  as  they, 

And  famous  in  our  story ! 

Ye  have  not  such  a  past  as  ours, 
Though  bright  your  annals  be ; 

No  bulwark  here  so  sternly  towers, 
As  towers  around  our  free ; 

We  cannot  boast  a  Washington — 


200    GREEK  CHANT  IN  A  LAND  OF  FREEDOM. 

The  soil  that  gave  him  birth ; 
Yet  can  we  boast  of  proud  deeds  done, 
The  terror  of  the  earth ! 

The  stories  of  our  ancient  lines — 

Our  children  that  have  sprung,(20) 
Up  from  the  dust  like  mountain  pines 

To  the  dark  tempest  flung ! — 
Go  number  o'er  their  bright,  bright  names, 

All  cluster'd  there  like  stars ; 
And  number  all  our  glorious  games, 

And  trophies  of  fierce  wars ! 

Hark !  to  the  voice  that  breaks  afar 

From  red  Thermopylae ! 
Hark  !  to  the  larum  peal  of  war, 

Swelling  from  sea  to  sea ! — 
When  the  proud  lines — the  tyrant's  boast — 

Coming  to  make  us  slaves, 
Were  dash'd  back  from  our  rocky  coast 

Like  chafed  and  broken  waves ! 

And  if  ye  ask  for  storied  lands, 

Where  muse  and  music  are ; 
And  laughing  eyes,  and  snowy  hands, 

And  bosoms  glancing  bare ; 
And  hearts  that  leap  with  pulse  of  fire, 

Thrilling  each  vein  along ; 
And  souls  all  pour'd  out  in  desire — 

Go  to  our  land  of  song ! 


GREEK  CHANT  IN  A  LAND  OF  FREEDOM.    201 

Your  sons  are  brave,  and  nurs'd  for  fame, 

And  great  their  names  shall  be ; 
And  in  the  van  shall  ever  flame 

Your  banner  for  the  free ; 
Yet  freemen's  breasts,  though  breasts  of  rock, 

Too  generous  are  to  claim, 
That  he  who  comes  of  Grecian  stock 

Boasts  not  a  nobler  name  ! 

It  may  be  that  Greece  cannot  now, 

As  erst  her  warriors  number ; 
Yet  freedom's  star  is  on  her  brow, 

Though  freedom's  sun  yet  slumber ! 
Oh !  soon  that  glad  morn  greet  our  eyes, 

When,  honor'd  on  each  shore, 
My  country  from  the  dust  shall  rise, 

And  be  proud  Greece  once  more ! 


202 


WATCHING  WITH  THE  DEAD. 


AND  did  you  never  watch  then  with  the  dead  1 
Oh  !  then  you  do  not  half  know  what  it  is, 
To  feel  how  poor  a  broken  heart  may  be ! 
A  friend  came  to  me  once  ('tis  years  ago) 
That  I  would  watch  with  one  laid  for  the  grave — 
'Twas  one  that  I  had  loved,  not  wisely  though, 
For  when  I  bow'd  down  to  her,  and  I  told 
My  love  with  the  deep  earnestness  love  feels, 
And  dared  to  praise  her  lip,  and  praise  her  eye, 
And  tell  her  how  they  had  bewitch'd  me,  and 
How  I  could  never  live  without  her  smile, 
She  did  not  look  indeed  in  scorn,  but  then 
She  told  me  that  her  heart  was  given  to  Heaven. 
The  spring  ran  round  as  usual,  and  slight  leaves 
Furnish'd  the  tints  for  summer,  and  the  suns 
Grew  brief  and  low,  and  the  light  winds  of  autumn 
Began  to  shake  the  autumn  blossoms  down, 
With  that  sad  tone  peculiar  to  them,  when 
Disease  came  suddenly  on  this  fair  girl. 
But  oh !  not  in  his  terrible  array 
Of  cries  and  groans  and  tears  and  breaking  hearts, 
Not  with  thick  airs  and  hush'd  and  close-shut  rooms, 
And  not  with  racking  pains  that  sometimes  come 
And  wring  the  human  frame  so  piteously, 


WATCHING    WITH    THE    DEAD.  203 

But  when  the  sands  ran  low,  and  her  pulse  slack'd, 
And  flutter'd  her  low  breath,  and  the  last  chill 
Shiver' d  once  through  her  heart,  and  all  was  over — 
It  seem'd  she  had  gone,  slumbering,  up  to  Heaven. 

I  sat  there  with  the  moonlight  on  my  brow 
And  looking  out  upon  the  stars,  and  now 
Up  to  the  moon,  and  wondering  there  if  ever 
Her  spirit  might  be  gazing  on  it,  from 
Some  spot  beyond  its  motions,  and  had  God 
Yet  told  her  of  the  strange  things  of  his  world. 
And  then  I  turned  away — it  wearied  me — 
To  where,  in  its  still  symmetry,  was  laid 
That  form  which  had  so  witch'd  me  into  dreams. 
I  folded  back  the  pale  scarf  from  her  brow, 
And  I  bowed  down  upon  it,  and  I  laid 
My  cheek  to  hers,  and  touch'd  that  lip,  that  never 
Had  enter'd  to  my  thought  till  then  before, 
And  then  came  over  me  that  terrible  rush 
Of  passions,  all  that  I  had  loved,  hoped,  dream'd 
And  prayed  for,  and  the  truth  that  it  was  wrench'd 
As  by  some  tyrannous  power  from  out  my  grasp, 
And  I  must  wander  here  without  one  star — 
I  do  believe  I  curs'd  God  in  my  pride. 
— I  know  I  laid  that  pale  scarf  back  again, 
And  when  the  morn  star  came,  and  when  came  in 
My  friend  there  to  relieve  me,  and  came  others 
To  gaze  down  on  the  dead,  and  we  then  bore  her 
Forth,  and  the  clods  were  piled  upon  her  heart — 
Perhaps  I  did  not  weep,  but  I  did  learn 
To  feel  how  poor  a  broken  heart  may  be ! 


NOTES. 


(1)  "INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY."     Page  11. 

THIS  essay,  "  on  the  proper  office  of  the  true  poet"  written  for  another 
purpose,  is  inserted  here  in  the  place  of  a  preface.  Prefaces  are  mostly  made 
up  of  apologies — the  author  had  none  to  make. 


(2)          "How  low,  how  high,  how  earthly,  how  like  Heaven! 

How  mean,  and  yet  how  mighty  is  our  world."     Page  8. 

"  How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august ! 
How  complicate,"  &c.  Young's  Night  Thoughts. 


(3)          "  To  gorge  the  deathless  hunger  of  the  heart."     Page  18. 

"  And  feels  the  mighty  hunger  of  the  heart." 

Talford's  Ion. 

(4)  "  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  NATURE  ON  THE  INDIVIDUAL  MIND."     Page  31. 

Pronounced  at  the  departure  of  the  Senior  Class  of  Yale  College,  July  5, 
1837. 

(5)  "  THE  VOICE  OF  TRUTH."     Page  59. 

This  poem  is,  as  the  title  announces,  only  a  portion  of  a  more  extended 
effort.  It  is  presented  with  some  hesitancy,  from  the  fact  that  it  is  a  fragment ; 
however,  what  is  here  given  is  not  perhaps  without  the  parts  of  a  whole  in 
itself;  and  as  for  the  rest,  that  may  be  submitted  hereafter. 


(6)  "  and  sober  law, 

Long  purifying  in  the  crucible, 


206  NOTES. 

Of  modern  policy  and  French  finesse, 
Has  changed  its  nature  to  a  thing,  in  which 
We  recognize  no  portion  of  itself."     Page  68. 

See  Burke's  speech  on  "  The  Army  Estimates." 


(7)  "  Oh  !  we  seem  bound  to  death.     No  patriot, 

Whose  bosom  owns  a  patriot's  sympathies, 
Can  cast  his  eye  across  this  mighty  land, 
See  murders  here,"  &c.     Page  69. 

If  the  reader  will  sum  up  the  mobs  and  murders  that  have  disgraced  the 
land  for  the  last  five  years,  he  will  not  charge  the  author  with  having  over- 
colored  the  picture. 


(8)  "  Alas  !  for  Africa,  ill-fated  land, 

Sweating  and  groaning  neath  a  mountain  curse, 

And  by  ourselves  imposed — alas,  for  thee !"     Page  70. 

As  the  institution  of  domestic  slavery  is  here  touched  upon,  and  as  the  non- 
expression  of  one's  opinions  where  they  can  be  reasonably  demanded,  would 
argue  a  want  of  that  moral  independence  which  no  man  may  evince  and  yet 
respect  himself,  the  author's  opinions  of  it  as  a  system  may  be  found  in  the 
following  extract  from  President  Wayland's  Moral  Philosophy.  What  is  the 
duty  of  master  and  slave,  too,  as  slavery  now  exists,  is  also  laid  down. 
President  Way  land  has  rendered  essential  service  to  the  cause  of  truth,  as 
well  by  his  unflinching  moral  integrity,  as  by  the  uncommon  force  and  fertil- 
ity of  his  intellect. 

"  Domestic  slavery  proceeds  upon  the  principle  that  the  master  has  a  right 
to  control  the  actions,  physical  and  intellectual,  of  the  slave,  for  his  own,  that 
is,  the  master's  individual  benefit;  and,  of  course,  that  the  happiness  of  the 
master,  when  it  comes  in  competition  with  the  happiness  of  the  slave,  extin- 
guishes in  the  latter  the  right  to  pursue  it.  It  supposes,  at  best,  that  the  rela- 
tion between  master  and  slave,  is  not  that  which  exists  between  man  and  man, 
but  is  a  modification,  at  least,  of  that  which  exists  between  man  and  the  brutes. 

"  Now,  this  manifestly  supposes  that  the  two  classes  of  beings  are  created 
with  dissimilar  rights :  that  the  master  possesses  rights  which  have  never 
been  conceded  by  the  slave ;  and  that  the  slave  has  no  rights  at  all  over  the 
means  of  happiness  which  God  has  given  him,  whenever  these  means  of  hap- 
piness can  be  rendered  available  to  the  service  of  the  master.  It  supposes 
that  the  Creator  intended  one  human  being  to  govern  the  physical,  intellect- 
ual and  moral  actions  of  as  many  other  human  beings  as  by  purchase  he  can 
bring  within  his  physical  power ;  and  that  one  human  being  may  thus  acquire 


NOTES.  207 

a  right  to  sacrifice  the  happiness  of  any  number  of  other  human  beings,  for 
the  purpose  of  promoting  his  own. 

"  Slavery  thus  violates  the  personal  liberty  of  man  as  a  physical,  intellect- 
ual and  moral  being. 

"  1.  It  purports  to  give  to  the  master  a  right  to  control  the  physical  labor  of 
the  slave,  not  for  the  sake  of  the  happiness  of  the  slave,  but  for  the  sake  of  the 
happiness  of  the  master.  It  subjects  the  amount  of  labor,  and  the  kind  of 
labor,  and  the  remuneration  for  labor,  entirely  to  the  will  of  the  one  party,  to 
the  entire  exclusion  of  the  will  of  the  other  party. 

"  2.  But  if  this  right  in  the  master  over  the  slave  be  conceded,  there  are  of 
course  conceded  all  other  rights  necessary  to  insure  its  possession.  Hence, 
inasmuch  as  the  slave  can  be  held  in  this  condition  only  while  he  remains  in 
the  lowest  slate  of  mental  imbecility,  it  supposes  the  master  to  have  the  right 
to  control  his  intellectual  development,  just  as  far  as  may  be  necessary  to  se- 
cure entire  subjection.  Thus,  it  supposes  the  slave  to  have  no  right  to  use 
his  intellect  for  the  production  of  his  own  happiness ;  but,  only  to  use  it  in 
such  manner  as  may  conduce  to  his  master's  profit. 

"3.  And,  moreover,  inasmuch  as  the  acquisition  of  the  knowledge  of  his 
duty  to  God  could  not  be  freely  made  without  the  acquisition  of  other  knowl- 
edge, which  might,  if  universally  diffused,  endanger  the  control  of  the  master, 
slavery  supposes  the  master  to  have  the  right  to  determine  how  much  knowl- 
edge of  his  duty  a  slave  shall  obtain,  the  manner  in  which  he  shall  obtain  it, 
and  the  manner  in  which  he  shall  discharge  that  duty  after  he  shall  have  ob- 
tained a  knowledge  of  it.  It  thus  subjects  the  duty  of  man  to  God  entirely  to 
the  will  of  man  ;  and  this  for  the  sake  of  pecuniary  profit.  It  renders  the 
eternal  happiness  of  the  one  party  subservient  to  the  temporal  happiness  of  the 
other.  And  this  principle  is  commonly  carried  into  effect  in  slave-holding 
countries. 

"  If  argument  were  necessary  to  show  that  such  a  system  as  this  must  be  at 
variance  with  the  ordinance  of  God,  it  might  be  easily  drawn  from  the  effects 
which  it  produces  both  upon  morals  and  upon  national  wealth. 

1.  "  Its  effects  must  be  disastrous  upon  the  morals  of  both  parties.  By  pre- 
senting objects  on  whom  passion  may  be  satiated  without  resistance  and 
without  redress,  it  cultivates  in  the  master,  pride,  anger,  cruelty,  selfishness 
and  licentiousness.  By  accustoming  the  slave  to  subject  his  moral  principles 
to  the  will  of  another,  it  tends  to  abolish  in  him  all  moral  distinction  ;  and 
thus  fosters  in  him  lying,  deceit,  hypocrisy,  dishonesty,  and  a  willingness  to 
yield  himself  up  to  minister  to  the  appetites  of  his  master.  That  in  all  slave- 
holding  countries  there  are  exceptions  to  this  remark,  and  that  there  are  prin- 
ciples in  human  nature  which,  in  many  cases,  limit  the  effects  of  these  ten- 
dencies, may  be  gladly  admitted.  Yet,  that  such  is  the  tendency  of  slavery, 
as  slavery,  we  think  no  reflecting  person  can  for  a  moment  hesitate  to  allow. 

"  2.  The  effects  of  slavery  on  national  wealth,  may  be  easily  seen  from  the 
following  considerations  : 


208 


NOTES. 


"  1.  Instead  of  imposing  upon  all  the  necessity  of  labor,  it  restricts  the  num- 
ber of  laborers,  that  is  of  producers,  within  the  smallest  possible  limit,  by  ren- 
dering labor  disgraceful. 

"  2.  It  takes  from  the  laborers  the  natural  stimulus  to  labor,  namely,  the 
desire  in  the  individual  of  improving  his  condition ;  and  substitutes,  in  the 
place  of  it,  that  motive  which  is  the  least  operative  and  the  least  constant, 
namely,  the  fear  of  punishment  without  the  consciousness  of  moral  delin- 
quency. 

"  3.  It  removes,  as  far  as  possible,  from  both  parties,  the  disposition  and 
the  motives  to  frugality.  Neither  the  master  learns  frugality  from  the  neces- 
sity of  labor,  nor  the  slave  from  the  benefits  which  it  confers.  And  here, 
while  the  one  party  wastes  from  ignorance  of  the  laws  of  acquisition,  and  the 
other  because  he  can  have  no  motive  to  economy,  capital  must  accumulate 
but  slowly,  if  indeed  it  accumulate  at  all. 

********* 

"  What  is  the  duty  of  masters  and  slaves,  under  a  condition  of  society  in 
which  slavery  now  exists  ? 

"  I.  As  to  masters. 

"  If  the  system  be  wrong,  as  we  have  endeavored  to  show,  if  it  be  at  vari- 
ance with  our  duty  both  to  God  and  to  man,  it  must  be  abandoned.  If  it  be 
asked  when,  I  ask  again,  when  shall  a  man  begin  to  cease  to  do  wrong  ?  Is 
not  the  answer,  immediately?  If  a  man  is  injuring  us,  do  we  ever  doubt  as  to 
the  time  when  he  ought  to  cease  ?  There  is  then  no  doubt  in  respect  to  the 
time  when  we  ought  to  cease  inflicting  injury  upon  others. 

"  But  it  may  be  said,  immediate  abolition  would  be  the  greatest  possible 
injury  to  the  slaves  themselves.  They  are  not  competent  to  self-government. 

"  This  is  a  question  of  fact,  which  it  is  not  the  province  of  moral  philoso- 
phy to  decide.  It  very  likely  may  be  so.  So  far  as  I  know,  the  facts  are  not 
sufficiently  known  to  warrant  a  full  opinion  on  the  subject.  We  will,  there- 
fore, suppose  it  to  be  the  case,  and  ask,  what  is  the  duty  of  masters  under  these 
circumstances  f 

"  1.  The  situation  of  the  slaves,  in  which  this  obstacle  to  their  emancipa- 
tion consists,  is  not  by  their  own  act,  but  by  the  act  of  their  masters  ;  and, 
therefore,  the  masters  are  bound  to  remove  it.  The  slaves  were  brought  here 
without  their  own  consent,  they  have  been  continued  in  their  present  state  of 
degradation  without  their  own  consent,  and  they  are  not  responsible  for  the 
consequences.  If  a  man  have  done  injustice  to  his  neighbor,  and  have  also 
placed  impediments  in  the  way  of  remedying  that  injustice,  he  is  as  much 
under  obligation  to  remove  the  impediments  in  the  way  of  justice,  as  he  is  to 
do  justice.  Were  it  otherwise,  a  man  might,  by  the  accumulation  of  injury, 
at  last  render  the  most  atrocious  injury  innocent  and  right. 

"  2.  But  it  may  be  said,  this  cannot  be  done,  unless  the  slave  is  held  in 
bondage  until  the  object  be  accomplished.  This  is  also  a  question  of  fact,  on 


NOTES.  209 

which  I  will  not  pretend  to  decide.  But  suppose  it  to  be  so,  the  question  re- 
turns, what  then  is  the  duty  of  the  master  ?  I  answer,  supposing  such  to  be 
the  fact,  it  may  be  the  duty  of  the  master  to  hold  the  slave ;  not,  however,  on 
the  ground  of  right  over  him,  but  of  obligation  to  him,  and  of  obligation  to  him, 
for  the  purpose  of  accomplishing  a  particular  and  specified  good.  And,  of 
course,  he  who  holds  him  for  any  other  purpore,  holds  him  wrongfully,  and  is 
guilty  of  the  sin  of  slavery.  In  the  mean  while,  he  is  innocent  in  just  so  far 
as  he,  in  the  fear  of  God,  holds  the  slave,  not  for  the  good  of  the  master,  but 
for  the  good  of  the  slave,  and  with  the  entire  and  honest  intention  of  accom- 
plishing the  object  as  soon  as  he  can,  and  of  liberating  the  slave  as  soon  as  the 
object  is  accomplished.  He  thus  admits  the  slave  to  equality  of  right.  He 
does  unto  another  as  he  would  that  another  should  do  unto  him;  and,  thus 
acting,  though  he  may  in  form  hold  a  fellow-creature  in  bondage,  he  is  in 
fact  innocent  of  the  crime  of  violation  of  liberty.  This  opinion,  however, 
proceeds  upon  the  supposition  that  the  facts  are  as  above  stated.  As  to  the 
question  of  fact,  I  do  not  feel  competent  to  a  decision. 

"  II.  The  duty  of  slaves  is  also  explicitly  made  known  in  the  Bible.  They 
are  bound  to  obedience,  fidelity,  submission,  and  respect  to  their  masters,  not 
only  to  the  good  and  kind,  but  also  to  the  unkind  and  froward ;  not,  however, 
on  the  ground  of  duty  to  man,  but  on  the  ground  of  duty  to  God.  This  obli- 
gation extends  to  every  thing  but  matters  of  conscience.  When  a  master  com- 
mands a  slave  to  do  wrong,  the  slave  ought  not  to  obey.  The  Bible  does  not, 
as  I  suppose,  authorize  resistance  to  injury  ;  but  it  commands  us  to  refuse 
obedience  in  such  a  case,  and  suffer  the  consequences,  looking  to  God  alone, 
to  whom  vengeance  belongeth.  Acting  upon  these  principles,  the  slave  may 
attain  to  the  highest  grade  of  virtue,  and  may  exhibit  a  sublimity  and  purity 
of  moral  character,  which,  in  the  condition  of  the  master,  is  absolutely  unat- 
tainable. 

"  Thus  we  see  that  the  Christian  religion  not  only  forbids  slavery,  but  that 
it  also  provides  the  only  method  in  which,  after  it  has  once  been  established, 
it  may  be  abolished,  and  that  with  entire  safety  and  benefit  to  both  parties. 
By  instilling  the  right  moral  dispositions  into  the  bosom  of  the  master  and  of 
the  slave,  it  teaches  the  one  the  duty  of  reciprocity,  and  the  other  the  duty  of 
submission;  and  thus,  without  tumult,  without  disorder,  without  revenge, 
but,  by  the  real  moral  improvement  of  both  parties,  restores  both  to  the  rela- 
tion towards  each  other  intended  by  their  Creator. 

"  Hence,  if  any  one  will  reflect  on  these  facts,  and  remember  the  moral  law 
of  the  Creator,  and  the  terrible  sanctions  by  which  his  laws  are  sustained,  and 
also  the  provision  which  in  the  gospel  of  reconciliation,  He  has  made  for  re- 
moving this  evil  after  it  has  once  been  established ;  he  must,  I  think,  be  con- 
vinced of  the  imperative  obligation  which  rests  upon  him  to  remove  it  without 
the  delay  of  a  moment.  The  Judge  of  the  whole  earth  will  do  justice.  He 
hears  the  cry  of  the  oppressed,  and  he  will,  in  the  end,  terribly  vindicate  right. 


210  NOTES. 

And,  on  the  other  hand,  let  those  who  suffer  wrongfully,  bear  their  sufferings 
with  patience,  committing  their  souls  unto  him  as  unto  &  faithful  Creator." 

If  the  author  were  altogether  icorldly  wise,  he  would  perhaps  be  afraid  of 
some  party  or  sectional  odium  that  might  attach  itself  to  his  book,  from  the 
preceding  quotations.  To  this  he  would  say,  that,  in  his  opinion,  the  man 
who  writes  and  prints  a  book  and  sends  it  into  the  community,  conscious  to 
himself  of  having  directed  his  course  by  nothing  more  definite  than  what  he 
thought  this  or  that  person  or  party  might  think  or  say,  is,  in  the  first  place, 
unfit  to  guide  himself,  and,  as  certainly,  unfit  to  approach  the  minds  of 
others.  The  author  belongs  to  no  party  or  clan,  formed  to  put  down  slavery; 
but  he  belongs  to  the  great  association  of  God's  creatures,  and,  as  such,  feels 
for  them,  and  will  speak. 


(9)  "  And  when,  more  modern,  dared 

The  lecherous  Charles,  of  Britain's  history, 
To  brave  his  suffering  God  ;"  &c.     Page  72. 

See  the  Life  of  Richard  Baxter. 


(10.)  "  or  lammergeyer  upon  the  cliffs."     Page  77. 

A  bird  of  the  eagle  kind  found  among  the  Higher  German  and  Switzerland 
Alps. 


(11)  — "  The  morn  was  beautiful !     The  rising  sun 

Glanc'd  from  the  glaciers  with  a  thousand  beams  j"     Page  78. 

For  an  account  of  the  awful  persecution  of  these  Christians,  see  Milner's 
Church  History  of  that  century. 


(12)  "Here  Commerce  spreads  her  whited  wings, 

And  Art,  amid  her  labor,  sings."     Page  84. 

For  these  two  beautiful  lines,  the  author  is  indebted  to  the  Rev.  Leonard 
Bacon,  of  New  Haven. 


(13)  "  Here  Art  and  Science  hail  their  son ;"     Page  85. 

The  man  whose  active  usefulness  extends  over  more  than  two  thirds  of  a 
century — NOAH  WEBSTER. 


NOTES.  211 

(14)  "OTHER  DAYS."     Page  103. 

For  the  sake  of  his  acquaintances,  the  author  would  state  that  the  scene 
which  suggested  this  piece,  and  which  is  the  original  of  the  engraving,  is  a 
beautiful  spot  called  "  Ash  Meadow"  in  his  native  village. 


(15)  "LIFE."    Page  126. 

For  this  piece  the  author  is  somewhat  beholden  to  a  fine  Spanish  poem  by 
Don  Jorge  Manrique,  preserved  in  an  old  translation  of  Spanish  Ballads. 
The  same  has  been  beautifully  translated  by  Professor  Longfellow,  in  his 
"  Outre  Mer." 


(16)  "  A  FATHER  TO  HIS  CHILD."     Page  133. 

This  piece  has  been  already  published,  and  with  it  the  following  note  : 
"A  friend  of  mine  thinks  he  has  seen  a  poem  somewhere  not  unlike  this 
both  in  form  and  subject  I  have  hunted  over  pamphlets  and  periodicals 
without  number  to  find  one,  but  in  vain;  if  the  reader  is  more  successful,  he 
will  please  give  the  author  of  any  such  piece  as  much  credit  as  he  chooses, 
and  subduct  the  same  from  me." 

The  author  has  since  seen  the  piece — written,  he  believes,  by  a  Mr.  Chal- 
mers— the  resemblance  however  is  scarcely  traceable,  if  at  all. 


(17)  "  Thou  dost  walk  forth  upon  the  breast  of  the  earth, 

An  active,  thinking,  animated  soul !"     Page  138. 


"  Upon  the  breast  of  new-created  earth 
Man  walked,"  &c. 


Wordsworth. 


(18)  "  EAST  ROCK  IN  AUTUMN."    Page  145. 

"  East  Rock"  a  name  given  to  the  extremity  of  one  of  the  branches  of  the 
Green  Mountains,  which,  extending  through  Connecticut,  ends  in  an  ab- 
rupt bluff  about  a  mile  above  the  city  of  New  Haven. 


(19)  "FRAGMENT  OF  AN  EPISTLE."     Page  155. 

Byron  somewhere  says,  "  Scott  alone  has  triumphed  over  the  fatal  faculty 
of  this  octo-syllabic  verse."  Perhaps  his  lordship  was  as  little  careful  of 
his  language  when  he  penned  this  sentence,  as  he  frequently  was  on  more 


212 


NOTES. 


important  subjects.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  friend,  to  whom  these  lines 
were  originally  written,  will  not  be  offended  at  seeing  them  in  a  more  tangi- 
ble form. 

(20)  "  The  stories  of  our  ancient  lines — 

Our  children  that  have  sprung, 
Up  from  the  dust,  &c.     Page  200. 

Alluding  to  the  fable  of  the  dragon's  teeth.     See  Grecian  Mythology. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Dedication, vii 

Introductory  Essay, xi 

Man, 1 

The  Influence  of  Nature  on  the  Individual  Mind,        ....  29 

The  Voice  of  Truth, 57 

Centennial  Hymn, 83 

A  Forest  Noon-Scene, 86 

The  Merry  Heart, 90 

The  Cheerful  Invalid, 92 

«  I  Would  I  Were  a  Child  Again," 98 

October, 101 

Other  Days, 103 

A  Midnight  Meditation, 107 

Fanny  Willoughby, 112 

A  Vision  of  War, 115 

Pen  and  Ink, 118 

The  Wood  Robin, 121 

Life, 126 

On  Visiting  the  Grave  of  a  Sister, 130 

A  Father  to  his  Child, 133 

Thanatos, 137 


YC   16221 


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